IT'S   BEAUTIFUL,'  ROSE   SAID  " 


PEMBROKE 


B 


BY 


MARY  E.  WILKINS 

AUTHOR  OF    "A    HUMBLE    ROMANCE,    AND    OTHER    STORIES ' 
"A    NEW    ENGLAND    NUN,  AND    OTHER   STORIES" 

UJANE  FIELD"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
1-894 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

All  righis  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  '  IT'S   BEAUTIFUL,'  ROSE   SAID  " Frontispiece 

"BARNABAS  WENT  OUT  QUICKLY" Facing  page    4 

"SYLVIA  GLANCED  TIMIDLY  AT  RICHARD'S  SMOOTH 
LY-SHAVEN  FACE  "  .........  "  "  30 

"THEY  CAME  IN  SIGHT  OF  THE  HOUSE"   ...  "  "  48 

"  '  REBECCA'S  GOT  SOME  EGGS  TO  SELL  ' "  .     .    .  "  "  88 

"BARNEY  SAT  STARING  AT  VACANCY".     ...  "  "116 

"CHARLOTTE  STOOD  BESIDE  ANOTHER  GIRL"  .     .  "  "  130 
"  MANY  A  LONG  TASK  OF  NEEDLE-WORK  HAD  SHE 

DONE" .  "  u  154 

"HE   REMAINED   THERE   MOTIONLESS"       ....  "  "  166 

"'  WHERE    IS    REBECCA  ?'  SAID    BARNEY  "     ...  "  "  198 

"  A  BOYISH  FIGURE  FLED  SWIFTLY  OUT  OF  THE 

THAYER  YARD" "  "  226 

"  THE  THAYER  HOUSE  WAS  CROWDED  THE  AFTER 
NOON  OF  THE  FUNERAL"  ..*.'...  "  "  242 

"SYLVIA  NEVER  TURNED  HER  HEAD"  ....  "  "  278 

"THOMAS  PAINE  ADVANCED  WITH  A  CARELESS, 

STATELY  SWING" ...»  "  "  292 

"'I'VE  COME  TO  TAKE  CARE  OF  YOU '  "    ...  "  "  322 


292707 


PEMBROKE 


CHAPTER    I 

AT  half -past  six  o'clock  on  Sunday  night  Bar 
nabas  came  out  of  his  bedroom.  The  Thayer  house 
was  only  one  story  high,  and  there  were  no  chambers. 
A  number  of  little  bedrooms  were  clustered  around 
the  three  square  rooms — the  north  and  south  parlors, 
and  the  great  kitchen. 

Barnabas  walked  out  of  his  bedroom  straight  into 
the  kitchen  where  the  other  members  of  the  family 
were.  They  sat  before  the  hearth  fire  in  a  semi 
circle — Caleb  Thayer,  his  wife  Deborah,  his  son 
Ephraim,  and  his  daughter  Rebecca.  It  was  May, 
but  it  was  quite  cold ;  there  had  been  talk  of  danger 
to  the  apple  blossoms ;  there  was  a  crisp  coolness 
in  the  back  of  the  great  room  in  spite  of  the  hearth 
fire. 

Caleb  Thayer  held  a  great  leather-bound  Bible  on 
his  knees,  and  was  reading  aloud  in  a  solemn  voice. 
His  wife  sat  straight  in  her  chair,  her  large  face  tilted 
with  a  judicial  and  argumentative  air,  and  Rebecca's 


"""'•  fsd'jcttfejca  fe>{opme4'*<>ut  Jnore  brilliantly  in  the  heat 
of  the  fire.  She*  sat  nexf  her  mother,  and  her  smooth 
dark  head  with  its  carven  comb  arose  from  her  Sun- 
vday  kerchief  with  a  like  carriage.  She  and  her 
mother  did  not  look  alike,  but  their  motions  were 
curiously  similar,  and  perhaps  gave  evidence  to  a 
subtler  resemblance  in  character  and  motive  power. 

Ephraim,  undersized  for  his  age,  in  his  hitching, 
home-made  clothes,  twisted  himself  about  when  Bar 
nabas  entered,  and  stared  at  him  with  slow  regard. 
He  eyed  the  smooth,  scented  hair,  the  black  satin 
vest  with  a  pattern  of  blue  flowers  on  it,  the  blue 
coat  with  brass  buttons,  and  the  shining  boots,  then 
he  whistled  softly  under  his  breath. 

"Ephraim!"  said  his  mother,  sharply.  She  had 
a  heavy  voice  and  a  slight  lisp,  which  seemed  to 
make  it  more  impressive  and  more  distinctively  her 
own.  Caleb  read  on  ponderously. 

"  Where  ye  goin',  Barney  ?"  Ephraim  inquired, 
with  a  chuckle  and  a  grin,  over  the  back  of  his 
chair. 

"  Ephraim  !"  repeated  his  mother.  Her  blue  eyes 
frowned  around  his  sister  at  him  under  their  heavy 
sandy  brows. 

Ephraim  twisted  himself  back  into  position.  "  Jest 
wanted  to  know  where  he  was  goin',''  he  muttered. 

Barnabas  stood  by  the  window  brushing  his  fine 
bell  hat  with  a  white  duck's  wing.  He  was  a  hand 
some  youth  ;  his  profile  showed  clear  and  fine  in  the 
light,  between  the  sjiarp  points  of  his  dicky  bound 


about  by  his  high  stock.  His  checks  were  as  red  as 
his  sister's. 

When  he  put  on  his  hat  and  opened  the  door, 
his  mother  herself  interrupted  Caleb's  reading. 

"Don't  you  stay  later  than  nine  o'clock,  Bar 
nabas,"  said  she. 

The  young  man  murmured  something  unintel 
ligibly,  but  his  tone  was  resentful. 

"I  ain't  going  to  have  you  out  as  long  as  you 
were  last  Sabbath  night,"  said  his  mother,  in  quick 
return.  She  jerked  her  chin  down  heavily  as  if  it 
were  made  of  iron. 

Barnabas  went  out  quickly,  and  shut  the  door 
with  a  thud. 

"  If  he  was  a  few  years  younger,  I'd  make  him 
come  back  an'  shut  that  door  over  again,"  said  his 
mother. 

Caleb  read  on  ;  he  was  reading  now  one  of  the 
imprecatory  psalms.  Deborah's  blue  eyes  gleamed 
with  warlike  energy  as  she  listened:  she  confused 
King  David's  enemies  with  those  people  who  crossed 
her  own  will. 

Barnabas  went  out  of  the  yard,  which  was  wide 
and  deep  on  the  south  side  of  the  house.  The 
bright  young  grass  was  all  snowed  over  with  cherry 
blossoms.  Three  great  cherry-trees  stood  in  a  row 
through  the  centre  of  the  yard ;  they  had  been  white 
with  blossoms,  but  now  they  were  turning  green ;  and 
the  apple-trees  were  in  flower. 

There  were  many  apple-trees  behind  the  stone- 


walls  that  bordered  the  wood.  The  soft  blooming 
branches  looked  strangely  incongruous  in  the  keen 
air.  The  western  sky  was  clear  and  yellow,  and 
there  were  a  few  reefs  of  violet  cloud  along  it.  Bar 
nabas  looked  up  at  the  apple  blossoms  over  his  head, 
and  wondered  if  there  would  be  a  frost.  From  their 
apple  orchard  came  a  large  share  of  the  Thayer  in 
come,  and  Barnabas  was  vitally  interested  in  such 
matters  now,  for  he  was  to  be  married  the  last  of 
June  to  Charlotte  Barnard.  He  often  sat  down 
with  a  pencil  and  slate,  and  calculated,  with  in 
tricate  sums,  the  amounts  of  his  income  and  their 
probable  expenses.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
Charlotte  should  have  one  new  silk  gown  every  year, 
and  two  new  bonnets  —  one  for  summer  and  one  for 
winter.  His  mother  had  often  noted,  with  scorn, 
that  Charlotte  Barnard  wore  her  summer  bonnet  with 
another  ribbon  on  it  winters,  and,  moreover,  had 
not  had  a  new  bonnet  for  three  years. 

"She  looks  handsomer  in  it  than  any  girl  in 
town,  if  she  hasn't,"  Barnabas  had  retorted  with 
quick  resentment,  but  he  nevertheless  felt  sensitive 
on  the  subject  of  Charlotte's  bonnet,  and  resolved 
that  she  should  have  a  white  one  trimmed  with  gauze 
ribbons  for  summer,  and  one  of  drawn  silk,  like 
Rebecca's,  for  winter,  only  the  silk  should  be  blue 
instead  of  pink,  because  Charlotte  was  fair. 

Barnabas  had  even  pondered  with  tender  concern, 
before  he  bought  his  fine  flowered  satin  waistcoat, 
if  he  might  not  put  the  money  it  would  cost  into  a 


bonnet  for  Charlotte,  but  he  had  not  dared  to  propose 
it.  Once  he  had  bought  a  little  blue-figured  shawl 
for  her,  and  her  father  had  bade  her  return  it. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  any  young  sparks  buyin' 
your  clothes  while  you  are  under  my  roof,"  he  had 
said. 

Charlotte  had  given  the  shawl  back  to  her  lover. 
"  Father  don't  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  take  it,  and  I 
guess  you'd  better  keep  it  now,  Barney,"  she  said, 
with  regretful  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Barnabas  had  the  blue  shawl  nicely  folded  in  the 
bottom  of  his  little  hair-cloth  trunk,  which  he  always 
kept  locked. 

After  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  stone-walls  and  the 
spray  of  apple  blossoms  ended ;  there  was  a  short 
stretch  of  new  fence,  and  a  new  cottage-house  only 
partly  done.  The  yard  was  full  of  lumber,  and  a 
ladder  slanted  to  the  roof,  which  gleamed  out  with 
the  fresh  pinky  yellow  of  unpainted  pine. 

Barnabas  stood  before  the  house  a  few  minutes, 
staring  at  it.  Then  he  walked  around  it  slowly,  his 
face  upturned.  Then  he  went  in  the  front  door, 
swinging  himself  up  over  the  sill,  for  there  were  no 
steps,  and  brushing  the  sawdust  carefully  from  his 
clothes  when  he  was  inside.  He  went  all  over  the 
house,  climbing  a  ladder  to  the  second  story,  and 
viewing  with  pride  the  two  chambers  under  the  slant 
of  the  new  roof.  He  had  repelled  with  scorn  his 
father's  suggestion  that  he  have  a  one-story  instead 
of  a  story -and-a-half  house.  Caleb  had  an  inordi- 


0 


nate  horror  and  fear  of  wind,  and  his  father,  who 
had  built  the  house  in  which  he  lived,  had  it  before 
him.  Deborah  often  descanted  indignantly  upon  the 
folly  of  sleeping  in  little  tucked-up  bedrooms  instead 
of  good  chambers,  because  folks'  fathers  had  been 
scared  to  death  of  wind,  and  Barnabas  agreed  with 
her.  If  he  had  inherited  any  of  his  father's  and 
grandfather's  terror  of  wind,  he  made  no  manifesta 
tion  of  it. 

In  the  lower  story  of  the  new  cottage  were  two 
square  front  rooms  like  those  in  his  father's  house, 
and  behind  them  the  great  kitchen  with  a  bedroom 
out  of  it,  and  a  roof  of  its  own. 

Barnabas  paused  at  last  in  the  kitchen,  and  stood 
quite  still,  leaning  against  a  window  casement.  The 
windows  were  not  in,  and  the  spaces  let  in  the  cool 
air  and  low  light.  Outside  was  a  long  reach  of  field 
sloping  gently  upward.  In  the  distance,  at  the  top  of 
the  hill,  sharply  outlined  against  the  sky,  was  a  black 
angle  of  roof  and  a  great  chimney.  A  thin  column  of 
smoke  rose  out  of  it,  straight  and  dark.  That  was 
where  Charlotte  Barnard  lived. 

Barnabas  looked   out  and  saw   the   smoke  risino- 

O 

from  the  chimney  of  the  Barnard  house.  There  was 
a  little  hollow  in  the  field  that  was  quite  blue  with 
violets,  and  he  noted  that  absently.  A  team  passed 
on  the  road  outside ;  it  was  as  if  he  saw  and  heard 
everything  from  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  own 
life,  and  everything  seemed  strange  and  far  off. 
He  turned  to  go,  but  suddenly  stood  still  in  the 


middle  of  the  kitchen,  as  if  some  one  had  stopped 
him.  He  looked  at  the  new  fireless  hearth,  through 
the  open  door  into  the  bedroom  which  he  would  oc 
cupy  after  he  was  married  to  Charlotte,  and  through 
others  into  the  front  rooms,  which  would  be  apart 
ments  of  simple  state,  not  so  closely  connected  with 
every-day  life.  The  kitchen  windows  would  be  sun 
ny.  Charlotte  would  think  it  a  pleasant  room. 

"Her  rocking-chair  can  set  there,"  said  Barnabas 
aloud.  The  tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  he  stepped  for 
ward,  laid  his  smooth  boyish  cheek  against  a  parti 
tion  wall  of  this  new  house,  and  kissed  it.  It  was  a 
fervent  demonstration,  not  towards  Charlotte  alone, 
nor  the  joy  to  come  to  him  within  those  walls,  but  to 
all  life  and  love  and  nature,  although  he  did  not  com 
prehend  it.  He  half  sobbed  as  he  turned  away  ;  his 
thoughts  seemed  to  dazzle  his  brain,  and  he  could 
not  feel  his  feet.  He  passed  through  the  north  front 
room,  which  would  be  the  little-used  parlor,  to  the 
door,  and  suddenly  started  at  a  long  black  shadow 
on  the  floor.  It  vanished  as  he  went  on,  and  might 
have  been  due  to  his  excited  fancy,  which  seemed 
substantial  enough  to  cast  shadows. 

"  I  shall  marry  Charlotte,  we  shall  live  here  to 
gether  all  our  lives,  and  die  here,"  thought  Barnabas, 
as  he  went  up  the  hill.  "  I  shall  lie  in  my  coffin  in 
the  north  room,  and  it  will  all  be  over,"  but  his  heart 
leaped  with  joy.  He  stepped  out  proudly  like  a  sol 
dier  in  a  battalion,  he  threw  back  his  shoulders  in  his 
Sunday  coat. 


The  yellow  glow  was  paling  in  the  west,  the  even 
ing  air  was  like  a  cold  breath  in  his  face.  He  could 
see  the  firelight  flickering  upon  the  kitchen  wall  of 
the  Barnard  house  as  he  drew  near.  He  came  up 
into  the  yard  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  fair  head  in 
the  ruddy  glow.  There  was  a  knocker  on  the  door; 
he  raised  it  gingerly  and  let  it  fall.  It  made  but  a 
slight  clatter,  but  a  woman's  shadow  moved  imme 
diately  across  the  yard  outside,  and  Barnabas  heard 
the  inner  door  open.  He  threw  open  the  outer  one 
himself,  and  Charlotte  stood  there  smiling,  and  softly 
decorous.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  Barnabas  glanced 
at  the  inner  door  to  see  if  it  were  closed,  then  he 
caught  Charlotte's  hands  and  kissed  her. 

"You  shouldn't  do  so,  Barnabas,"  whispered  Char 
lotte,  turning  her  face  away.  She  was  as  tall  as  Bar 
nabas,  and  as  handsome. 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  persisted  Barnabas,  all  radiant, 
and  his  face  pursued  hers  around  her  shoulder. 

"  It's  pretty  cold  out,  ain't  it  ?"  said  Charlotte,  in 
a  chiding  voice  which  she  could  scarcely  control. 

"  I've  been  in  to  see  our  house.  Give  me  one  more 
kiss.  Oh,  Charlotte !" 

"Charlotte!"  cried  a  deep  voice,  and  the  lovers 
started  apart. 

"I'm  coming,  father,"  Charlotte  cried  out.  She 
opened  the  door  and  went  soberly  into  the  kitchen, 
with  Barnabas  at  her  heels.  Her  father,  mother, 
and  Aunt  Sylvia  Crane  sat  there  in  the  red  ^leam  of 
the  firelight  and  gathering  twilight.  Sylvia  sat  a  lit- 


tie  behind  the  others,  and  her  face  in  her  white  cap 
had  the  shadowy  delicacy  of  one  of  the  flowering  ap 
ple  sprays  outside. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  said  Barnabas  in  a  brave  tone 
which  was  slightly  aggressive.  Charlotte's  mother 
and  aunt  responded  rather  nervously. 

"  How's  your  mother,  Barnabas  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Barnard. 

"  She's  pretty  well,  thank  you." 

Charlotte  pulled  forward  a  chair  for  her  lover ;  he 
had  just  seated  himself,  when  Cephas  Barnard  spoke 
in  a  voice  as  sudden  and  gruff  as  a  dog's  bark.  Bar 
nabas  started,  and  his  chair  grated  on  the  sanded  floor. 

"Light  the  candle,  Charlotte,"  said  Cephas,  and 
Charlotte  obeyed.  She  lighted  the  candle  on  the 
high  shelf,  then  she  sat  down  next  Barnabas.  Ce 
phas  glanced  around  at  them.  He  was  a  small  man, 
with  a  thin  face  in  a  pale  film  of  white  locks  and 
beard,  but  his  black  eyes  gleamed  out  of  it  with 
sharp  fixedness.  Barnabas  looked  back  at  him  un 
flinchingly,  and  there  was  a  curious  likeness  between 
the  two  pairs  of  black  eyes.  Indeed,  there  had  been 
years  ago  a  somewhat  close  relationship  between  the 
Thayers  and  the  Barnards,  and  it  was  not  strange 
if  one  common  note  was  repeated  generations  hence. 
Cephas  had  been  afraid  lest  Barnabas  should,  all 
unperceived  in  the  dusk,  hold  his  daughter's  hand, 
or  venture  upon  other  loverlike  familiarity.  That  was 
the  reason  why  he  had  ordered  the  candle  lighted 
when  it  was  scarcely  dark  enough  to  warrant  it. 


10 


But  Barnabas  seemed  scarcely  to  glance  at  his 
sweetheart  as  he  sat  there  beside  her,  although  in 
some  subtle  fashion,  perhaps  by  some  finer  spiritual 
vision,  not  a  turn  of  her  head,  nor  a  fleeting  expres 
sion  on  her  face,  like  a  wind  of  the  soul,  escaped 
him.  He  saw  always  Charlotte's  beloved  features 
high  and  pure,  almost  severe,  but  softened  with 
youthful  bloom,  her  head  with  fair  hair  plaited  in  a 
smooth  circle,  with  one  long  curl  behind  each  ear. 
Charlotte  would  scarcely  have  said  he  had  noticed, 
but  he  knew  well  she  had  on  a  new  gown  of  delaine 
in  a  mottled  purple  pattern,  her  worked-muslin  col 
lar,  and  her  mother's  gold  beads  which  she  had  given 
her. 

Barnabas  kept  listening  anxiously  for  the  crackle 
of  the  hearth  fire  in  the  best  room ;  he  hoped  Char 
lotte  had  lighted  the  fire,  and  they  should  soon  go 
in  there  by  themselves.  They  usually  did  of  a  Sun 
day  night,  but  sometimes  Cephas  forbade  his  daugh 
ter  to  light  the  fire  and  prohibited  any  solitary  com 
munion  between  the  lovers. 

"  If  Barnabas  Thayer  can't  set  here  with  the  rest  of 
us,  he  can  go  home,"  he  proclaimed  at  times,  and  he 
had  done  so  to-night.  Charlotte  had  acquiesced  for 
lornly  ;  there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do.  Early 
in  her  childhood  she  had  learned  along  with  her 
primer  her  father's  character,  and  the  obligations  it 
imposed  upon  her. 

"  You  must  be  a  good  girl,  and  mind  ;  it's  your 
father's  way,"  her  mother  used  to  tell  her.  Mrs. 


11 


Barnard  herself  had  spelt  out  her  husband  like  a 
hard  and  seemingly  cruel  text  in  the  Bible.  She 
marvelled  at  its  darkness  in  her  light,  but  she  be 
lieved  in  it  reverently,  and  even  pugnaciously. 

The  large,  loosely  built  woman,  with  her  heavy, 
sliding  step,  waxed  fairly  decisive,  and  her  soft, 
meek-lidded  eyes  gleamed  hard  and  prominent  when 
her  elder  sister,  Hannah,  dared  inveigh  against  Ce 
phas. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  his  way,"  said  Sarah  Barnard. 
And  she  said  it  as  if  "  his  way  "  was  the  way  of  the 
King. 

"  His  way  !"  Hannah  would  sniff  back.  "  His 
way !  Keepin'  you  all  on  rye  meal  one  spell,  an'  not 
lettin'  you  eat  a  mite  of  Injun,  an'  then  keepin'  you 
on  Injun  without  a  mite  of  rye !  Makin'  you  eat 
nothin'  but  greens  an'  garden  stuff,  an'  jest  turnin' 
you  out  to  graze  an'  chew  your  cuds  like  horned 
animals  one  spell,  an'  then  makin'  you  live  on  meat ! 
Lettin'  you  go  abroad  when  he  takes  a  notion,  an' 
then  keepin'  you  au'  Charlotte  in  the  house  a  year !" 

"  It's  his  way,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  anything 
said  against  it,"  Sarah  Barnard  would  retort  stanchly, 
and  her  sister  would  sniff  back  again.  Charlotte  was 
as  loyal  as  her  mother ;  she  did  not  like  it  if  even  her 
lover  intimated  anything  in  disfavor  of  her  father. 

No  matter  how  miserable  she  was  in  consequence 
of  her  acquiescence  with  her  father's  will,  she  sternly 
persisted. 

To-night  she  knew  that  Barnabas  was  waiting  im- 


patiently  for  her  signal  to  leave  the  rest  of  the  com 
pany  and  go  with  her  into  the  front  room ;  there  was 
also  a  tender  involuntary  impatience  and  longing  in 
every  nerve  of  her  body,  but  nobody  would  have  sus 
pected  it;  she  sat  there  as  calmly  as  if  Barnabas 
were  old  Squire  Payne,  who  sometimes  came  in  of  a 
Sabbath  evening,  and  seemed  to  be  listening  intently 
to  her  mother  and  her  Aunt  Sylvia  talking  about  the 
spring  cleaning. 

Cephas  and  Barnabas  were  grimly  silent.  The 
young  man  suspected  that  Cephas  had  prohibited 
the  front  room ;  he  was  indignant  about  that,  and 
the  way  in  which  Charlotte  had  been  summoned  in 
from  the  entry,  and  he  had  no  diplomacy. 

Charlotte,  under  her  calm  exterior,  grew  uneasy ; 
she  glanced  at  her  mother,  who  glanced  back.  It 
was  to  both  women  as  if  they  felt  by  some  subtle 
sense  the  brewing  of  a  tempest.  Charlotte  unobtru 
sively  moved  her  chair  a  little  nearer  her  lover's ;  her 
purple  delaine  skirt  swept  his  knee;  both  of  them 
blushed  and  trembled  with  Cephas's  black  eyes  upon 
them. 

Charlotte  never  knew  quite  how  it  began,  but  her 
father  suddenly  flung  out  a  dangerous  topic  like  a 
long-argued  bone  of  contention,  and  he  and  Barnabas 
were  upon  it.  Barnabas  was  a  Democrat,  and  Ce 
phas  was  a  Whig,  and  neither  ever  forgot  it  of  the 
other.  None  of  the  women  fairly  understood  the 
point  at  issue ;  it  was  as  if  they  drew  back  their 
feminine  skirts  and  listened  amazed  and  trembling 


to  this  male  hubbub  over  something  outside  their 
province.  Charlotte  grew  paler  and  paler.  She  looked 
piteously  at  her  mother. 

"  Now,  father,  don't,"  Sarah  ventured  once  or 
twice,  but  it  was  like  a  sparrow  piping  against  the 
north  wind. 

Charlotte  laid  her  hand  on  her  lover's  arm  and  kept 
it  there,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  heed  her.  "  Don't," 
she  said  ;  "  don't,  Barnabas.  I  think  there's  going  to 
be  a  frost  to-night ;  don't  you  ?"  But  nobody  heard 
her.  Sylvia  Crane,  in  the  background,  clutched  the 
arms  of  her  rocking-chair  with  her  thin  hands. 

Suddenly  both  men  began  hurling  insulting  epi 
thets  at  each  other.  Cephas  sprang  up,  waving  his 
right  arm  fiercely,  and  Barnabas  shook  off  Char 
lotte's  hand  and  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Get  out  of  here  !"  shouted  Cephas,  in  a  hoarse 
voice — "  get  out  of  here  !  Get  out  of  this  house,  an' 
don't  you  ever  darse  darken  these  doors  again  while 
the  Lord  Almighty  reigns !"  The  old  man  was  almost 
inarticulate;  he  waved  his  arms,  wagged  his  head, 
and  stamped ;  he  looked  like  a  white  blur  with 
rage. 

"  I  never  will,  by  the  Lord  Almighty  !"  returned 
Barnabas,  in  an  awful  voice ;  then  the  door  slammed 
after  him.  Charlotte  sprang  up. 

"  Set  down  !"  shouted  Cephas.  Charlotte  rushed 
forward.  "You  set  down!"  her  father  repeated;  her 
mother  caught  hold  of  her  dress. 

"  Charlotte,  do  set  down,"  she  whispered,  glancing 


14 


at  her  husband  in  terror.  But  Charlotte  pulled  her 
dress  away. 

"  Don't  you  stop  me,  mother.  I  am  not  going  to 
have  him  turned  out  this  way,"  she  said.  Her  father 
advanced  threateningly,  but  she  set  her  young,  strong 
shoulders  against  him  and  pushed  past  out  of  the  door. 
The  door  was  slammed  to  after  her  and  the  bolt  shot, 
but  she  did  not  heed  that.  She  ran  across  the  yard, 
calling :  "  Barney  !  Barney  !  Barney  !  Come  back !" 
Barnabas  was  already  out  in  the  road  ;  he  never 
turned  his  head,  and  kept  on.  Charlotte  hurried  af 
ter  him.  "Barney,"  she  cried,  her  voice  breaking 
with  sobs — "Barney,  do  come  back.  You  aren't  mad 
at  me,  are  you  ?"  Barney  never  turned  his  head  ; 
the  distance  between  them  widened  as  Charlotte  fol 
lowed,  calling.  She  stopped  suddenly,  and  stood 
watching  her  lover's  dim  retreating  back,  straining 
with  his  rapid  strides. 

"  Barney  Thayer,"  she  called  out,  in  an  angry,  im 
perious  tone,  "  if  you're  ever  coming  back,  you  come 
now !" 

But  Barney  kept  on  as  if  he  did  not  hear.  Char 
lotte  gasped  for  breath  as  she  watched  him ;  she  could 
scarcely  help  her  feet  running  after  him,  but  she 
would  not  follow  him  any  farther.  She  did  not  call 
him  again ;  in  a  minute  she  turned  around  and  went 
back  to  the  house,  holding  her  head  high  in  the  dim 
light. 

She  did  not  try  to  open  the  door ;  she  was  sure  it 
was  locked,  and  she  was  too  proud.  She  sat  down 


15 


on  the  flat,  cool  door-stone,  and  remained  there  as 
dusky  and  motionless  against  the  old  gray  panel  of 
the  door  as  the  shadow  of  some  inanimate  object 
that  had  never  moved. 

The  wind  began  to  rise,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
full  moon,  impelled  softly  upward  by  force  as  unseen 
as  thought.  Charlotte's  fair  head  gleamed  out  abrupt 
ly  in  the  moonlight  like  a  pale  flower,  but  the  folds 
of  her  mottled  purple  skirt  were  as  vaguely  dark  as 
the  foliage  on  the  lilac-bush  beside  her.  All  at  once 
the  flowering  branches  on  a  wide-spreading  apple- 
tree  cut  the  gloom  like  great  silvery  wings  of  a 
brooding  bird.  The  grass  in  the  yard  was  like  a 
shaggy  silver  fleece.  Charlotte  paid  no  more  atten 
tion  to  it  all  than  to  her  own  breath,  or  a  clock  tick 
which  she  would  have  to  withdraw  from  herself  to 
hear. 

A  low  voice,  which  was  scarcely  more  than  a  whis 
per,  called  her,  a  slender  figure  twisted  itself  around 
the  front  corner  of  the  house  like  a  vine.  "Char 
lotte,  you  there  ?"  Charlotte  did  not  hear.  Then  the 
whisper  came  again.  "  Charlotte  !" 

Charlotte  looked  around  then. 

A  slender  white  hand  reached  out  in  the  gloom 
around  the  corner  and  beckoned.  "  Charlotte,  come ; 
come  quick." 

Charlotte  did  not  stir. 

"  Charlotte,  do  come.  Your  mother's  dreadful 
afraid  you'll  catch  cold.  The  front  door  is  open." 

Charlotte  sat  quite  rigid.     The  slender  figure  be- 


10 


gan  moving  towards  her  stealthily,  keeping  close  to 
the  house,  advancing  with  frequent  pauses  like  a  wary 
bird.  When  she  got  close  to  Charlotte  she  reached 
down  and  touched  her  shoulder  timidly.  "  Oh,  Char 
lotte,  don't  you  feel  bad  ?  He'd  ought  to  know  your 
father  by  this  time ;  he'll  get  over  it  and  come  back," 
she  whispered. 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  come  back,"  Charlotte  whis 
pered  fiercely  in  return. 

Sylvia  stared  at  her  helplessly.  Charlotte's  face 
looked  strange  and  hard  in  the  moonlight.  "Your 
mother's  dreadful  worried,"  she  whispered  ag#in, 
presently.  "  She  thinks  you'll  catch  cold.  I  come 
out  of  the  front  door  on  purpose  so  you  can  go  in 
that  way.  Your  father's  asleep  in  his  chair.  He 
told  your  mother  not  to  unbolt  this  door  to-night, 
and  she  didn't  darse  to.  But  we  went  past  him  real 
still  to  the  front  one,  an*  you  can  slip  in  there  and 
get  up  to  your  chamber  without  his  seeing  you.  Oh, 
Charlotte,  do  come  !" 

Charlotte  arose,  and  she  and  Sylvia  went  around 
to  the  front  door.  Sylvia  crept  close  to  the  house 
as  before,  but  Charlotte  walked  boldly  along  in  the 
moonlight.  "  Charlotte,  I'm  dreadful  afraid  he'll  see 
you,"  Sylvia  pleaded,  but  Charlotte  would  not  change 
her  course. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  front  door  it  was  slammed 
with  a  quick  puff  of  wind  in  their  faces.  They  heard 
Mrs.  Barnard's  voice  calling  piteously.  "  Oh,  father, 
do  let  her  in  !"  it  implored. 


17 


"Don't  you  worry,  mother,"  Charlotte  called  out. 
"  I'll  go  home  with  Aunt  Sylvia." 

"  Oh,  Charlotte !"  her  mother's  voice  broke  in 
sobs. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  mother,"  Charlotte  repeated, 
with  an  unrelenting  tone  in  the  comforting  words. 
"  I'll  go  right  home  with  Aunt  Sylvia.  Come,"  she 
said,  imperatively  to  her  aunt,  "  I  am  not  going  to 
stand  here  any  longer,"  and  she  went  out  into  the 
road,  arid  hastened  down  it,  as  Barnabas  had  done. 

"  I'll  take  her  right  home  with  me,"  Sylvia  called 
to  her  sister  in  a  trembling  voice  (nobody  knew  how 
afraid  she  was  of  Cephas) ;  and  she  followed  Char 
lotte. 

Sylvia  lived  on  an  old  road  that  led  from  the  main 
one  a  short  distance  beyond  the  new  house,  so  the 
way  led  past  it.  Charlotte  went  on  at  such  a  pace 
that  Sylvia  could  scarcely  keep  up  with  her.  She 
slid  along  in  her  wake,  panting  softly,  and  lifting  her 
skirts  out  of  the  evening  dew.  She  was  trembling 
with  sympathy  for  Charlotte,  and  she  had  also  a 
worry  of  her  own.  When  they  reached  the  new 
house  she  fairly  sobbed  outright,  but  Charlotte  went 
past  in  her  stately  haste  without  a  murmur. 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,  don't  feel  so  bad,"  mourned  her 
aunt.  "  I  know  it  will  all  come  right."  But  Char 
lotte  made  no  reply.  Her  dusky  skirts  swept  around 
the  bushes  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  and  Sylvia  hur 
ried  tremulously  after  her. 

Neither  of  them  dreamed  that  Barnabas  watched 


18 


them,  standing  in  one  of  the  front  rooms  of  his  new 
house.  He  had  gone  in  there  when  he  fled  from  Ce 
phas  Barnard's,  and  had  not  yet  been  home.  He  rec 
ognized  Charlotte's  motions  as  quickly  as  her  face, 
and  knew  Sylvia's  voice,  although  he  could  not  dis 
tinguish  what  she  said.  He  watched  them  turn  the 
corner  of  the  other  road,  and  thought  that  Charlotte 
was  going  to  spend  the  night  with  her  aunt — he  did 
not  dream  why.  He  had  resolved  to  stay  where  he  was 
in  his  desolate  new  house,  and  not  go  home  himself. 

A  great  grief  and  resentment  against  the  whole 
world  and  life  itself  swelled  high  within  him.  It 
was  as  if  he  lost  sight  of  individual  antagonists,  and 
burned  to  dash  life  itself  in  the  face  because  he  ex 
isted.  The  state  of  happiness  so  exalted  that  it 
became  almost  holiness,  in  which  he  had  been  that 
very  night,  flung  him  to  lower  depths  when  it  was 
retroverted.  He  had  gone  back  to  first  causes  in  the 
one  and  he  did  the  same  in  the  other;  his  joy  had 
reached  out  into  eternity,  and  so  did  his  misery. 
His  natural  religious  bent,  inherited  from  genera 
tions  of  Puritans,  and  kept  in  its  channel  by  his 
training  from  infancy,  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
conceive  of  sympathy  or  antagonism  in  its  fullest 
sense  apart  from  God. 

Sitting  on  a  pile  of  shavings  in  a  corner  of  the 
north  room,  he  fairly  hugged  himself  with  fierce  par 
tisanship.  "  What  have  I  done  to  be  treated  in  this 
way  ?"  he  demanded,  setting  his  face  ahead  in  the 
darkness ;  and  he  did  not  see  Cephas  Barnard's 


19 


threatening  countenance,  but  another,  gigantic  with 
its  vague  outlines,  which  his  fancy  could  not  limit, 
confronting  him  with  terrible  negative  power  like  a 
stone  image.  He  struck  out  against  it,  and  the  blows 
fell  back  on  his  own  heart. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  he  demanded  over  and  over 
of  this  great  immovable  and  silent  consciousness 
which  he  realized  before  him.  "  Have  I  not  kept  all 
thy  commandments  from  childhood?  Have  I  ever 
failed  to  praise  thee  as  the  giver  of  my  happiness, 
and  ask  thy  blessing  upon  it?  What  have  I  done 
that  it  should  be  taken  away  ?  It  was  given  to  me 
only  to  be  taken  away.  Why  was  it  given  to  me, 
then  ? — that  I  might  be  mocked  ?  Oh,  I  am  mocked, 
I  am  mocked  !"  he  cried  out,  in  a  great  rage,  and  he 
struck  out  in  the  darkness,  and  his  heart  leaped  with 
futile  pain.  The  possibility  that  his  misery  might 
not  be  final  never  occurred  to  him.  It  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that  he  could  enter  Cephas  Barnard's 
house  again,  ask  his  pardon,  and  marry  Charlotte.  It 
seemed  to  him  settled  and  inevitable ;  he  could  not 
grasp  any  choice  in  the  matter. 

Barnabas  finally  threw  himself  back  on  the  pile  of 
shavings,  and  lay  there  sullenly.  Great  gusts  of  cold 
wind  came  in  at  the  windows  at  intervals,  a  loose 
board  somewhere  in  the  house  rattled,  the  trees  out 
side  murmured  heavily. 

"There  won't  be  a  frost,"  Barnabas  thought,  his 
mind  going  apace  on  its  old  .routine  in  spite  of  its 
turmoil.  Then  he  thought  with  the  force  of  an  oath 


20 


that  he  did  not  care  if  there  was  a  frost.  All  the 
trees  this  spring  had  blossomed  only  for  him  and 
Charlotte  ;  now  there  was  no  longer  any  use  in  that ; 
let  the  blossoms  blast  arid  fall ! 


CHAPTER  II 

SYLVIA  CRANE'S  house  was  the  one  in  which  her 
grandmother  had  been  born,  and  was  the  oldest 
house  in  the  village.  It  was  known  as  the  "  old 
Crane  place."  It  had  never  been  painted,  it  was 
shedding  its  flapping  gray  shingles  like  gray  scales, 
the  roof  sagged  in  a  mossy  hollow  before  the  chim 
ney,  the  windows  and  doors  were  awry,  and  the 
whole  house  was  full  of  undulations  and  wavering 
lines,  which  gave  it  a  curiously  unreal  look  in  broad 
daylight.  In  the  moonlight  it  was  the  shadowy  edi 
fice  built  of  a  dream. 

As  Sylvia  and  Charlotte  came  to  the  front  door 
it  seemed  as  if  they  might  fairly  walk  through  it  as 
through  a  gray  shadow ;  but  Sylvia  stooped,  and 
her  shoulders  strained  with  seemingly  incongruous 
force,  as  if  she  were  spending  it  to  roll  away  a 
shadow.  On  the  flat  doorstep  lay  a  large  round 
stone,  pushed  close  against  the  door.  There  were 
no  locks  and  keys  in  the  old  Crane  place  ;  only  bolts. 
Sylvia  could  not  fasten  the  doors  on  the  inside  when 
she  went  away,  so  she  adopted  this  expedient,  which 
had  been  regarded  with  favor  by  her  mother  and 
grandmother  before  her,  and  illustrated  natures  full 


22 


of  gentle  fallacies  which  went  far  to  make  existence 
comfortable. 

Always  on  leaving  the  house  alone  the  Crane 
women  had  bolted  the  side  door,  which  was  the  one 
in  common  use,  gone  out  the  front  one,  and  labori 
ously  rolled  this  same  round  stone  before  it.  Sylvia 
reasoned  as  her  mother  and  grandmother  before  her, 
with  the  same  simplicity:  "When  the  stone's  in 
front  of  the  door,  folks  must  know  there  ain't  any 
body  to  home,  because  they  couldn't  put  it  there  if 
they  was." 

And  when  some  neighbor  had  argued  that  the  evil- 
disposed  might  roll  away  the  stone  and  enter  at  will, 
Sylvia  had  replied,  with  the  innocent  conservatism 
with  which  she  settled  an  argument,  "  Nobody  ever 
did." 

To-night  she  rolled  away  the  stone  to  the  corner 
of  the  door-step,  where  it  had  lain  through  three 
generations  when  the  Crane  women  were  at  home, 
and  sighed  with  regret  that  she  had  defended  the 
door  with  it.  "  I  wish  I  hadn't  put  the  stone  up," 
she  thought.  "  If  I  hadn't,  mebbe  he'd  gone  in  an' 
waited."  She  opened  the  door,  and  the  gloom  of 
the  house,  deeper  than  the  gloom  of  the  night,  ap 
peared.  "  You  wait  here  a  minute,"  she  said  to 
Charlotte,  "  an'  I'll  go  in  an'  light  a  candle." 

Charlotte  waited,  leaning  against  the  door-post. 
There  was  a  flicker  of  fire  within.  Then  Sylvia  held 
the  flaring  candle  towards  her.  "  Come  in,"  she 
said;  "the  candle's  lit." 


There  was  a  bed  of  coals  on  the  hearth  in  the  best 
room ;  Sylvia  had  made  a  fire  there  before  going  over 
to  her  sister's,  but  it  had  burned  low.  The  glow  of 
the  coals  and  the  smoky  flare  of  the  candle  lighted 
the  room  uncertainly,  scattering  and  not  dispelling 
the  shadows.  There  was  a  primly  festive  air  in  the 
room.  The  flag -bottomed  chairs  stood  by  twos, 
finely  canted  towards  each  other,  against  the  wall ; 
the  one  great  hair-cloth  rocker  stood  ostentatiously 
in  advance  of  them,  facing  the  hearth  fire  ;  the  long 
level  of  the  hair-cloth  sofa  gleamed  out  under  stiff 
sweeps  of  the  white  fringed  curtains  at  the  window 
behind  it.  The  books  on  the  glossy  card -table  were 
set  canting  towards  each  other  like  the  chairs,  and 
with  their  gilt  edges  towards  the  light.  And  Sylvia 
had  set  also  on  the  table  a  burnished  pitcher  of  a 
rosy  copper-color  full  of  apple  blossoms. 

She  looked  at  it  when  she  had  set  the  candle  on 
the  shelf.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  light  in  the 
room  centred  on  it,  and  it  shone  in  her  eyes  like  a 
copper  lamp. 

Charlotte  also  glanced  at  it.  "  Why,  Richard  must 
have  come  while  you  were  over  to  our  house,"  she 
said. 

"  It  don't  make  any  odds  if  he  did,"  returned  Syl 
via,  with  a  faint  blush  and  a  bridle.  Sylvia  was 
much  younger  than  her  sister.  Standing  there  in 
the  dim  light  she  did  not  look  so  much  older  than 
her  niece.  Her  figure  had  the  slim  angularity  and 
primness  which  are  sometimes  seen  in  elderly  women 


who  are  not  matrons,  and  she  had  donned  a  little 
white  lace  cap  at  thirty,  but  her  face  had  still  a  deli 
cate  bloom,  and  the  wistful  wonder  of  expression 
which  belongs  to  youth. 

However,  she  never  thought  of  Charlotte  as  any 
thing  but  a  child  as  compared  with  herself.  Sylvia 
felt  very  old,  and  the  more  so  that  she  grudged  her 
years  painfully.  She  stirred  up  the  fire  a  little,  hold 
ing  back  her  shiny  black  silk  skirt  carefully.  Char 
lotte  stood  leaning  against  the  shelf,  looking  moodily 
down  at  the  fire. 

"  I  wouldn't  feel  bad  if  I  was  you,  Charlotte," 
Sylvia  ventured,  timidly. 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  go  to  bed  pretty  soon,"  re 
turned  Charlotte.  "  It  must  be  late." 

"  Had  you  rather  sleep  with  me,  Charlotte,  or  sleep 
in  the  spare  chamber  ?" 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  in  the  spare  chamber." 

"  Well,  I'll  get  you  a  night-gown." 

Both  of  their  faces  were  sober,  but  perfectly  staid. 
They  bade  each  other  good-night  without  a  quiver ; 
but  Charlotte,  after  she  had  said  her  dutiful  and  un 
questioning  prayer,  and  lay  folded  in  Sylvia's  ruffled 
night-gown  in  the  best  bed,  shook  with  great  sobs. 
"  Poor  Barney  !"  she  kept  muttering.  "  Poor  Bar 
ney  !  poor  Barney !"_  >.  - 

The  doors  were  all  open,  and  once  she  thought  she 
heard  a  sob  from  below,  then  concluded  she  must  be 
mistaken.  But  she  was  not,  for  Sylvia  Crane  was 
lamenting  as  sorely  as  the  younger  maiden  up-stairs. 


25 


"  Poor  Richard  !"  she  repeated,  piteously.  "  Poor 
Richard  !  There  he  came,  and  the  stone  was  up,  and 
he  had  to  go  away." 

The  faces  which  were  so  clear  to  the  hearts  of 
both  women,  as  if  they  were  before  their  eyes,  had  a 
certain  similarity.  Indeed,  Richard  Alger  and  Bar 
nabas  Thayer  were  distantly  related  on  the  mother's 
side,  and  people  said  they  looked  enough  alike  to  be 
brothers.  Sylvia  saw  the  same  type  of  face  as  Char 
lotte,  only  Richard's  face  was  older,  for  he  was  six 
years  older  than  she. 

"  If  I  hadn't  put  the  stone  up,"  she  moaned, 
"  maybe  he  would  have  thought  I  didn't  hear  him 
knock,  an'  he'd  come  in  an'  waited.  Poor  Richard, 
I  dunno  what  he  thought!  It's  the  first  time  it's 
happened  for  eighteen  years." 

Sylvia,  as  she  lay  there,  looked  backward,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  eighteen  years  were  all  made 
up  of  the  Sunday  nights  on  which  Richard  Alger 
had  come  to  see  her,  as  if  they  were  all  that  made 
them  immortal  and  redeemed  them  from  the  dead 
past.  She  had  endured  grief,  but  love  alone  made 
the  past  years  stand  out  for  her.  Sylvia,  in  looking 
back  over  eighteen  years,  forgot  the  father,  mother, 
and  sister  who  had  died  in  that  time ;  their  funeral 
trains  passed  before  her  eyes  like  so  many  shadows. 
She  forgot  all  their  cares  and  her  own ;  she  forgot 
how  she  had  nursed  her  bedridden  mother  for  ten 
years ;  she  forgot  everything  but  those  blessed  Sun 
day  nights  on  which  Richard  Alger  had  come.  She 


called  to  mind  every  little  circumstance  connected 
with  them — how  she  had  adorned  the  best  room  by 
slow  degrees,  saving  a  few  cents  at  a  time  from  her 
sparse  income,  because  he  sat  in  it  every  Sunday 
night;  how  she  had  had  the  bed  which  her  mother 
and  grandmother  kept  there  removed  because  the 
fashion  had  changed,  and  the  guilty  audacity  with 
which  she  had  purchased  a  hair-cloth  sofa  to  take  its 
place. 

That  adorning  of  the  best  room  had  come  to  be  a 
religion  with  Sylvia  Crane.  As  faithfully  as  any 
worshipper  of  the  Greek  deity  she  laid  her  offerings, 
her  hair-cloth  sofa  and  rocker,  her  copper-gilt  pitcher 
of  apple  blossoms,  upon  the  altar  of  love. 

Sylvia  recalled,  sobbing  more  piteously  in  the 
darkness,  sundry  dreams,  which  had  never  been  real 
ized,  of  herself  and  Richard  sitting  side  by  side  and 
hand  in  hand,  as  confessed  lovers,  on  that  sofa. 
Richard  Alger,  during  all  those  eighteen  years,  had 
never  made  love  to  Sylvia,  unless  his  constant  attend 
ance  upon  Sabbath  evenings  could  be  so  construed, 
as  it  was  in  that  rural  neighborhood,  and  as  Sylvia 
was  fain  to  construe  it  in  her  innocent  heart. 

It  is  doubtful  if  Sylvia,  in  her  perfect  decorum  and 
long-fostered  maiden  reserve,  fairly  knew  that  Rich 
ard  Alger  had  never  made  love  to  her.  She  scarcely 
expected  her  dreams  of  endearments  to  be  realized ; 
she  regarded  them,  except  in  desperate  moods,  with 
shame.  If  her  old  admirer  had,  indeed,  attempted 
to  sit  by  her  side  upon  that  hair-cloth  sofa  and  hold 


27 


her  hand,  she  would  have  arisen  as  if  propelled  by 
stiff  springs  of  modest  virtue.  She  did  not  fairly 
know  that  she  was  not  made  love  to  after  the  most 
honorable  and  orthodox  fashion  without  a  word  of 
endearment  or  a  caress;  for  she  had  been  trained  to 
regard  love  as  one  of  the  most  secret  of  the  laws  of 
nature,  to  be  concealed,  with  shamefaced  air,  even 
from  herself;  but  she  did  know  that  Richard  had 
never  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  for  that  she  was 
impatient  without  any  self-reserve ;  she  was  even 
confidential  with  her  sister,  Charlotte's  mother. 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  outside,"  she  once 
said,  "  but  I  do  think  it  would  be  a  good  deal  better 
for  him  if  we  was  settled  down.  He  ain't  half  taken 
care  of  since  his  mother  died." 

"  He's  got  money  enough,"  returned  Mrs.  Barnard. 

u  That  can't  buy  everything." 

"  Well,  I  don't  pity  him ;  I  pity  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Barnard. 

"  I  guess  I  shall  get  along  a  while  longer,  as  far  as 
that  goes,"  Sylvia  had  replied  to  her  sister,  with  some 
pride.  "  I  ain't  worried  on  my  account." 

"  Women  don't  worry  much  on  their  own  accounts, 
but  they've  got  accounts,"  returned  Mrs.  Barnard, 
with  more  contempt  for  her  sister  than  she  had  ever 
shown  for  herself.  "  You're  gettin'  older,  Sylvy." 

"  I  know  it,"  Sylvia  had  replied,  with  a  quick 
shrinking,  as  if  from  a  blow. 

The  passing  years,  as  they  passed  for  her,  stung 
her  like  swarming  bees,  with  bitter  humiliation  ;  but 


28 


never  for  herself,  only  for  Richard.  Nobody  knew 
how  painfully  she  counted  the  years,  how  she  would 
fain  have  held  time  back  with  her  thin  hands,  how 
futilely  and  pitifully  she  set  her  loving  heart  against 
it,  and  not  for  herself  and  her  own  vanity,  but  for 
the  sake  of  her  lover.  She  had  come,  in  the  single 
ness  of  her  heart,  to  regard  herself  in  the  light  of  a 
species  of  coin  to  be  expended  wholly  for  the  happi 
ness  and  interest  of  one  man.  Any  depreciation  in 
its  value  was  of  account  only  as  it  affected  him. 

Sylvia  Crane,  sitting  in  the  meeting-house  of  a 
Sunday,  used  to  watch  the  young  girls  coming  in,  as 
radiant  and  flawless  as  new  flowers,  in  their  Sunday 
bests,  with  a  sort  of  admiring  envy,  which  could  do 
them  no  harm,  but  which  tore  her  own  heart. 

When  she  should  have  been  contrasting  the  wick 
edness  of  her  soul  with  the  grace  of  the  Divine 
Model,  she  was  contrasting  her  fading  face  with  the 
youthful  bloom  of  the  young  girls.  "  He'd  ought  to 
marry  one  of  them,"  she  thought ;  "  he'd  ought  to, 
by  good  rights."  It  never  occurred  to  Sylvia  that 
Richard  also  was  growing  older,  and  that  he  was, 
moreover,  a  few  years  older  than  she.  She  thought 
of  him  as  an  immortal  youth  ;  his  face  was  the  same 
to  her  as  when  she  had  first  seen  it. 

When  it  came  before  a  subtler  vision  than  her 
bodily  one,  there  in  the  darkness  and  loneliness  of 
this  last  Sunday  night,  it  wore  the  beauty  and  inno 
cent  freshness  of  a  child.  If  Richard  Alger  could 
have  seen  his  own  face  as  the  woman  who  loved  him 


saw  it,  he  could  never  have  doubted  his  own  immor 
tality. 

"  There  he  came,  an'  the  stone  was  up,  an'  he  had 
to  go  away,"  moaned  Sylvia,  catching  her  breath 
softly.  Many  a  time  she  had  pitied  Richard  because 
he  had  not  the  little  womanly  care  which  men  need ; 
she  had  worried  lest  his  stockings  were  not  darned, 
and  his  food  not  properly  cooked ;  but  to-night  she 
had  another  and  strange  anxiety.  She  worried  lest 
she  herself  had  hurt  him  and  sent  him  home  with  a 
heavy  heart. 

Sylvia  had  gone  about  for  the  last  few  days  with 
her  delicate  face  as  irresponsibly  calm  as  a  sweet-pea; 
nobody  had  dreamed  of  the  turmoil  in  her  heart.  On 
the  Wednesday  night  before  she  had  nearly  reached 
the  climax  of  her  wishes.  Richard  had  come,  de 
parting  from  his  usual  custom — he  had  never  called 
except  on  Sunday  before — and  remained  later.  It 
was  ten  o'clock  before  he  went  home.  He  had  been 
very  silent  all  the  evening,  and  had  sat  soberly  in  the 
great  best  rocking-chair,  which  was,  in  a  way,  his 
throne  of  state,  with  Sylvia  on  the  sofa  on  his  right. 
Many  a  time  she  had  dreamed  that  he  came  over 
there  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  that  night  it  had 
come  to  pass. 

Just  before  ten  o'clock  he  had  arisen  hesitatingly ; 
she  thought  it  was  to  take  leave,  but  she  sat  waiting 
and  trembling.  They  had  sat  in  the  twilight  and 
young  moonlight  all  the  evening.  Richard  had 
checked  her  when  she  attempted  to  light  a  candle. 


30 


That  had  somehow  made  the  evening  seem  strange, 
and  freighted  with  consequences;  and  besides  the 
white  light  of  the  moon,  full  of  mystic  influence, 
there  was  something  subtler  and  more  magnetic, 
which  could  sway  more  than  the  tides,  even  the  pas 
sions  of  the  human  heart,  present,  and  they  both 
felt  it. 

Neither  had  said  much,  and  they  had  been  sitting 
there  nearly  two  hours,  when  Richard  had  arisen,  and 
moved  curiously,  rather  as  if  he  was  drawn  than 
walked  of  his  own  volition,  over  to  the  sofa.  He 
sank  down  upon  it  with  a  little  cough.  Sylvia  moved 
away  a  little  with  an  involuntary  motion,  which  was 
pure  maidenliness. 

"  It's  getting  late,"  remarked  Richard,  trying  to 
make  his  voice  careless,  but  it  fell  in  spite  of  him 
into  deep  cadences. 

"  It  ain't  very  late,  I  guess,"  Sylvia  had  returned, 
tremblingly. 

"  I  ought  to  be  going  home." 

Then  there  was  silence  for  a  while.  Sylvia  glanced 
sidewisc,  timidly  and  adoringly,  at  Richard's  smoothly 
shaven  face,  pale  as  marble  in  the  moonlight,  and 
waited,  her  heart  throbbing. 

"  I've  been  coming  here  a  good  many  years,"  Rich 
ard  observed  finally,  and  his  own  voice  had  a  solemn 
tremor. 

Sylvia  made  an  almost  inarticulate  assent. 

"I've  been  thinking  lately,"  said  Richard;  then 
he  paused.  They  could  hear  the  great  clock  out  in 


31 


the  kitchen  tick.  Sylvia  waited,  her  very  soul  strain 
ing,  although  shrinking  at  the  same  time,  to  hear. 

"  I've  been  thinking  lately,"  said  Richard  again, 
"  that — maybe — it  would  be  wise  for — us  both  to — 
make  some  different  arrangement." 

Sylvia  bent  her  head  low.  Richard  paused  for  the 
second  time.  "  I  have  always  meant — "  he  began 
again,  but  just  then  the  clock  in  the  kitchen  struck 
the  first  stroke  of  ten.  Richard  caught  his  breath 
and  arose  quickly.  Never  in  his  long  courtship  had 
he  remained  as  late  as  that  at  Sylvia  Crane's.  It  was 
as  if  a  life-long  habit  struck  as  well  as  the  clock,  and 
decided  his  times  for  him. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  said  he,  speaking  against  the 
bell  notes.  Sylvia  arose  without  a  word  of  dissent, 
but  Richard  spoke  as  if  she  had  remonstrated. 

"  I'll  come  again  next  Sunday  night,"  said  he, 
apologetically. 

Sylvia  followed  him  to  the  door.  They  bade  each 
other  good-night  decorously,  with  never  a  parting 
kiss,  as  they  had  done  for  years.  Richard  went  out 
of  sight  down  the  white  gleaming  road,  and  she  went 
in  and  to  bed,  with  her  heart  in  a  great  tumult  of 
expectation  and  joyful  fear. 

She  had  tried  to  wait  calmly  for  Sunday  night.  She 
had  done  her  neat  household  tasks  as  usual,  her  face 
and  outward  demeanor  were  sweetly  unruffled,  but  her 
thoughts  seemed  shivering  with  rainbows  that  con 
stantly  dazzled  her  with  sweet  shocks  when  her  eyes 
met  them.  Her  feet  seemed  constantly  flying  before 


32 


her  into  the  future,  and  she  could  scarcely  tell  where 
she  might  really  be,  in  the  present  or  in  her  dreams, 
which  had  suddenly  grown  so  real. 

On  Sunday  morning  she  had  curled  her  soft  fair 
hair,  and  arranged  with  trepidation  one  long  light 
curl  outside  her  bonnet  on  each  side  of  her  face.  Her 
bonnet  was  tied  under  her  chin  with  a  green  ribbon, 
and  she  had  a  little  feathery  green  wreath  around 
her  face  inside  the  rim.  Her  wide  silk  skirt  was  shot 
with  green  and  blue,  and  rustled  as  she  walked  up 
the  aisle  to  her  pew.  People  stared  after  her  with 
out  knowing  why.  There  was  no  tangible  change  in 
her  appearance.  She  had  worn  that  same  green  shot 
silk  many  Sabbaths ;  her  bonnet  was  three  summers 
old ;  the  curls  drooping  on  her  cheeks  were  an  inno 
vation,  but  the  people  did  not  recognize  the  change  as 
due  to  them.  Sylvia  herself  had  looked  with  pleased 
wonder  at  her  face  in  the  glass ;  it  was  as  if  all  her 
youthful  beauty  had  suddenly  come  up,  like  a  with 
ered  rose  which  is  dipped  in  a  vase. 

"  I  sha'n't  look  so  terrible  old  side  of  him  when  I 
go  out  bride,"  she  reflected,  happily,  smiling  fondly 
at  herself.  All  the  way  to  meeting  that  Sunday 
morning  she  saw  her  face  as  she  had  seen  it  in  the 
glass,  and  it  was  as  if  she  walked  with  something 
finer  than  herself. 

Richard  Alger  sat  with  the  choir  in  a  pew  beside 
the  pulpit,  at  right  angles  with  the  others.  He  had 
a  fine  tenor  voice,  and  had  sung  in  the  choir  ever 
since  he  was  a  bov.  When  Svlvia  sat  down  in  her 


place,  which  was  in  full  range  of  his  eyes,  he  glanced 
at  her  without  turning  his  head ;  he  meant  to  look 
away  again  directly,  so  as  not  to  be  observed,  but  her 
face  held  him.  A  color  slowly  flamed  out  on  his  pale 
brown  cheeks  ;  his  eyes  became  intense  and  abstract 
ed.  A  soprano  singer  nudged  the  girl  at  her  side ; 
they  both  glanced  at  him  and  tittered,  but  he  did  not 
notice  it. 

Sylvia  knew  that  he  was  looking  at  her,  but  she 
never  looked  at  him.  She  sat  soberly  waving  a  little 
brown  fan  before  her  face ;  the  light  curls  stirred 
softly.  She  wondered  what  he  thought  of  them  ;  if 
he  considered  them  too  young  for  her,  and  silly ;  but 
he  did  not  see  them  at  all.  He  had  no  eye  for  details. 
And  neither  did  she  even  hear  his  fine  tenor,  still 
sweet  and  powerful,  leading  all  the  other  male  voices 
when  the  choir  stood  up  to  sing.  She  thought  only 
of  Richard  himself. 

After  meeting,  when  she  went  down  the  aisle,  sev 
eral  women  had  spoken  to  her,  inquired  concerning 
her  health,  and  told  her,  with  wondering  eyes,  that 
she  looked  well.  Richard  was  far  behind  her,  but 
she  did  not  look  around.  They  very  seldom  accosted 
each  other,  unless  it  was  unavoidable,  in  any  public 
place.  Still,  Sylvia,  going  out  with  gentle  flounces  of 
her  green  shot  silk,  knew  well  that  Richard's  eyes  fol 
lowed  her,  and  his  thought  was  close  at  her  side. 

After  she  got  home  from  meeting  that  Sunday, 
Sylvia  Crane  did  not  know  how  to  pass  the  time  un 
til  the  evening.  She  could  not  keep  herself  calm  and 

3 


34 


composed  as  was  her  wont  on  the  Sabbath  day.  She 
changed  her  silk  for  a  common  gown  ;  she  tried  to 
sit  down  and  read  the  Bible  quietly  and  with  under 
standing,  but  she  could  not.  She  turned  to  Canticles, 
and  read  a  page  or  two.  She  had  always  believed 
loyally  and  devoutly  in  the  application  to  Christ  and 
the  Church ;  but  suddenly  now,  as  she  read,  the  re 
strained  decorously  chanting  New  England  love-song 
in  her  maiden  heart  had  leaped  into  the  fervid  meas 
ures  of  the  Oriental  King.  She  shut  the  Bible  with 
a  clap.  "  I  ain't  giving  the  right  meaning  to  it,"  she 
said,  sternly,  aloud. 

She  put  away  the  Bible,  went  into  the  pantry,  and 
got  out  some  bread  and  cheese  for  her  luncheon,  but 
she  could  eat  nothing.  She  picked  the  apple  blos 
soms  and  arranged  them  in  the  copper-gilt  pitcher  on 
the  best-room  table.  She  even  dusted  off  the  hair 
cloth  sofa  and  rocker,  with  many  compunctions,  be 
cause  it  was  Sunday.  "  I  know  I  hadn't  ought  to  do 
it  to-day,"  she  murmured,  apologetically,  "but  they 
do  get  terrible  dusty,  and  need  dusting  every  day, 
and  he  is  real  particular,  and  he'll  have  on  his  best 
clothes." 

Finally,  just  before  twilight,  Sylvia,  unable  to  settle 
herself,  had  gone  over  to  her  sister's  for  a  little  call. 
Richard  never  came  before  eight  o'clock,  except  in 
winter,  when  it  was  dark  earlier.  There  was  a  cer 
tain  half-shamefaced  reserve  about  his  visits.  lie 
knew  well  enough  that  people  looked  from  their  win 
dows  as  he  passed,  and  said,  facetiously,  "There  goes 


35 


Richard  Alger  to  court  Sylvy  Crane."  He  preferred 
slipping  past  in  a  half-light,  in  which  he  did  not  seem 
so  plain  to  himself,  and  could  think  himself  less  plain 
to  other  people. 

Sylvia,  detained  at  her  sister's  by  the  quarrel  be 
tween  Cephas  and  Barnabas,  had  arisen  many  a  time 
to  take  leave,  all  palpitating  with  impatience,  but  her 
sister  had  begged  her,  in  a  distressed  whisper,  to 
remain. 

"  I  guess  you  can  get  along  without  Richard  Alger 
one  Sunday  evening,"  she  had  said  finally,  quite 
aloud,  and  quite  harshly.  "  I  guess  your  own  sister 
has  just  as  much  claim  on  you  as  he  has.  I  dunno 
what's  going  to  be  done.  I  don't  believe  Charlotte's 
father  will  let  her  in  the  house  to-night." 

Poor  Sylvia  had  sunk  back  in  her  chair.  To  her 
sensitive  conscience  the  duty  nearest  at  hand  seemed 
always  to  bark  the  loudest,  and  the  precious  moments 
had  gone  by  until  she  knew  that  Richard  had  come, 
found  the  stone  before  the  door,  and  gone  away,  and 
all  her  sweet  turmoil  of  hope  and  anticipation  had 
gone  for  naught. 

Sylvia,  lying  there  awake  that  night,  her  mind  car 
rying  her  back  over  all  that  had  gone  before,  had  no 
doubt  that  this  was  the  end  of  everything.  Not 
originally  a  subtle  discerner  of  character,  she  had 
come  insensibly  to  know  Richard  so  well  that  certain 
results  from  certain  combinations  of  circumstances  in 
his  life  were  as  plain  and  inevitable  to  her  as  the  out 
come  of  a  simple  sum  in  mathematics.  "  He'd  got 


36 


'most  out  of  Ins  track  for  once,"  she  groaned  out 
softly,  "  but  now  he's  pushed  back  in  so  hard  he 
can't  get  out  again  if  he  wants  to.  I  dunno  how 
he's  going  to  get  along." 

Sylvia,  with  the  roof  settling  over  her  head,  with 
not  so  much  upon  her  few  sterile  acres  to  feed  her  as 
to  feed  the  honey-bees  and  birds,  with  her  heart  in 
greater  agony  because  its  string  of  joy  had  been 
strained  so  high  and  sweetly  before  it  snapped,  did 
not  lament  over  herself  at  all ;  neither  did  she  over 
the  other  woman  who  lay  up  stairs  suffering  in  a  sim 
ilar  case.  She  lamented  only  over  Richard  living  alone 
and  unministered  to  until  he  died. 

When  daylight  came  she  got  up,  dressed  herself, 
and  prepared  breakfast.  Charlotte  came  down  before 
it  was  ready.  "  Let  me  help  get  breakfast,"  she  said, 
with  an  assumption  of  energy,  standing  in  the  kitchen 
doorway  in  her  pretty  mottled  purple  delaine.  The 
purple  was  the  shade  of  columbine,  and  very  becom 
ing  to  Charlotte.  In  spite  of  her  sleepless  night,  her 
fine  firm  tints  had  not  faded  ;  she  was  too  young  and 
too  strong  and  too  full  of  involuntary  resistance.  She 
had  done  up  her  fair  hair  compactly;  her  chin  had 
its  usual  proud  lift. 

Sylvia,  shrinking  as  if  before  some  unseen  enemy 
as  she  moved  about,  her  face  all  wan  and  weary, 
glanced  at  her  half  resentfully.  "  I  guess  she  'ain't 
had  any  such  night  as  I  have,"  she  thought.  "Girls 
don't  know  much  about  it." 

"  No,  I  don't  need  any  help,"  she  replied,  aloud. 


37 


"  I  'ain't  got  anything  to  do  but  to  stir  up  an  Injun 
cake.  You've  got  your  best  dress  on.  You'd  better 
go  and  sit  down." 

"  It  won't  hurt  my  dress  any."  Charlotte  glanced 
down  half  scornfully  at  her  purple  skirt.  It  had  lost 
all  its  glory  for  her.  She  was  not  even  sure  that 
Barney  had  seen  it. 

"  Set  down.  I've  got  breakfast  'most  ready," 
Sylvia  said,  again,  more  peremptorily  than  she  was 
wont,  and  Charlotte  sat  down  in  the  hollow-backed 
cherry  rocking-chair  beside  the  kitchen  window, 
leaned  her  head  back,  and  looked  out  indifferently 
between  the  lilac-bushes.  The  bushes  were  full  of 
pinkish-purple  buds.  Sylvia's  front  yard  reached  the 
road  in  a  broad  slope,  and  the  ground  was  hard,  and 
green  with  dampness  under  the  shade  of  a  great  elm- 
tree.  The  grass  would  never  grow  there  over  the 
roots  of  the  elm,  which  were  flung  out  broadly  like 
great  recumbent  limbs  over  the  whole  yard,  and  were 
barely  covered  by  the  mould. 

Across  the  street,  seen  under  the  green  sweep  of 
the  elm,  was  an  orchard  of  old  apple-trees  which  had 
blossomed  out  bravely  that  spring.  Charlotte  looked 
at  the  white  and  rosy  masses  of  bloom. 

"  I  guess  there  wasn't  any  frost  last  night,  after 
all,"  she  remarked. 

"  I  dunno,"  responded  Sylvia,  in  a  voice  which 
made  her  niece  look  around  at  her.  There  was  a 
curious  impatient  ring  in  it  which  was  utterly  foreign 
to  it.  There  was  a  frown  between  Sylvia's  gentle 


38 


eyes,  and  she  moved  with  nervous  jerks,  setting  down 
dishes  hard,  as  if  they  were  refractory  children,  and 
lashing  out  with  spoons  as  if  they  were  whips.  The 
long,  steady  strain  upon  her  patience  had  not  affected 
her  temper,  but  this  last  had  seemed  to  bring  out  a 
certain  vicious  and  waspish  element  which  nobody 
had  suspected  her  to  possess,  and  she  herself  least  of 
all.  She  felt  this  morning  disposed  to  go  out  of  her 
way  to  sting,  and  as  if  some  primal  and  evil  instinct 
had  taken  possession  of  her.  She  felt  shocked  at 
herself,  but  all  the  more  defiant  and  disposed  to 
keep  on. 

"  Breakfast  is  ready,"  she  announced,  finally  ;  "  if 
you  don't  set  right  up  an'  eat  it,  it  will  be  gettin' 
cold.  I  wouldn't  give  a  cent  for  cold  Injun  cake." 

Charlotte  arose  promptly  and  brought  a  chair  to 
the  table,  which  Sylvia  always  set  punctiliously  in 
the  centre  of  the  kitchen  as  if  for  a  large  family. 

"  Don't  scrape  your  chair  on  the  floor  that  way ; 
it  wears  'em  all  out,"  cried  Sylvia,  sharply. 

Charlotte  stared  at  her  again,  but  she  said  noth 
ing  ;  she  sat  down  and  began  to  eat  absently.  Sylvia 
watched  her  angrily  between  her  own  mouthfuls, 
which  she  swallowed  down  defiantly  like  medicine. 

"  It  ain't  much  use  cookin'  things  if  folks  don't 
eat  'em,"  said  she. 

"  I  am  eating,"  returned  Charlotte. 

"  Eatin'  ?  Swallowin'  down  Injun  cake  as  if  it  was 
sawdust !  I  don't  call  that  eatin'.  You  don't  act  as 
if  vou  tasted  a  mite  of  it !" 


"  Aunt  Sylvy,  what  has  got  into  you  ?"  said  Char 
lotte. 

"  Got  into  me  ?  I  should  think  you'd  talk  about 
anything  gettin'  into  me,  when  you  set  there  like  a 
stick.  I  guess  you  'ain't  got  all  there  is  to  bear." 

"  I  never  thought  I  had,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  'ain't," 

They  went  on  swallowing  their  food  silently  ;  the 
great  clock  ticked  slowly,  and  the  spring  birds  called 
outside ;  but  they  heard  neither.  The  shadows  of 
the  young  elm  leaves  played  over  the  floor  and  the 
white  table-cloth.  It  was  much  warmer  that  morn 
ing,  and  the  shadows  were  softer. 

Before  they  had  finished  breakfast,  Charlotte's 
mother  came,  advancing  ponderously,  with  soft  thuds, 
across  the  yard  to  the  side  door.  She  opened  it  and 
peered  in. 

"  Here  you  be,"  said  she,  scanning  both  their  faces 
with  anxious  and  deprecating  inquiry. 

"  Can't  you  come  in,  an'  not  stand  there  holdin' 
the  door  open?"  inquired  Sylvia.  "I  feel  the  wind 
on  my  back,  and  I've  got  a  bad  pain  enough  in  it 
now." 

Mrs.  Barnard  stepped  in,  and  shut  the  door  quickly, 
in  an  alarmed  way. 

"Ain't  you  feelin'  well  this  mornin',  Sylvy?"  said 
she. 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  feelin'  well  enough.  It  ain't  any 
matter  how  I  feel,  but  it's  a  good  deal  how  some 
other  folks  do." 


40 


Sarah  Barnard  sank  into  the  rocking-chair,  and  sat 
there  looking  at  them  hesitatingly,  as  if  she  did  not 
dare  to  open  the  conversation. 

Suddenly  Sylvia  arose  and  went  out  of  the  kitchen 
with  a  rush,  carrying  a  plate  of  Indian  cake  to  feed 
the  hens.  "  I  can't  set  here  all  day ;  I've  got  to  do 
something,"  she  announced  as  she  went. 

When  the  door  had  closed  after  her,  Mrs.  Barnard 
turned  to  Charlotte. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?"  she  asked,  nodding 
towards  the  door. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  She  ain't  sick,  is  she  ?  I  never  see  her  act  so. 
Sylvy's  generally  just  like  a  lamb.  You  don't  s'pose 
she's  goin'  to  have  a  fever,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Suddenly  Charlotte,  who  was  still  sitting  at  the 
table,  put  up  her  two  hands  with  a  despairing  gest 
ure,  and  bent  her  head  forward  upon  them. 

"  Now  don't,  you  poor  child,"  said  her  mother,  her 
eyes  growing  suddenly  red.  "  Didn't  he  even  turn 
round  when  you  called  him  back  last  night?" 

Charlotte  shook  her  bowed  head  dumbly. 

"  Don't  you  s'pose  he'll  ever  come  again  ?" 

Charlotte  shook  her  head. 

"  Mebbe  he  will.     I  know  he's  terrible  set." 

"  Who's  set  ?"  demanded  Sylvia,  coming  in  with 
her  empty  plate. 

"Oh,  I  was  jest  savin'  that  I  thought  Barney  was 
kinder  set,"  replied  her  sister,  mildly. 


41 


"He  ain't  no  more  set  than  Cephas,"  returned 
Sylvia. 

"  Cephas  ain't  set.     It's  jest  his  way." 

Sylvia  sniffed.  She  looked  scornfully  at  Charlotte, 
who  had  raised  her  head  when  she  came  in,  but  whose 
eyes  were  red.  "  Folks  had  better  been  created  with 
out  ways,  then,"  she  retorted.  "  They'd  better  have 
been  created  slaves ;  they'd  been  enough  sight  hap 
pier  an'  better  off,  an'  so  would  other  folks  that  they 
have  to  do  with,  than  to  have  so  many  ways,  an'  not 
sense  enough  to  manage  'em.  I  don't  believe  in  free 
will,  for  my  part." 

"  Sylvy  Crane,  you  ain't  goin'  to  deny  one  of  the 
doctrines  of  the  Church  at  your  time  of  life  2"  de 
manded  a  new  voice.  Sylvia's  other  sister,  Hannah 
Berry,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

Sylvia  ordinarily  was  meek  before  her,  but  now 
she  faced  her.  "  Yes,  I  be,"  said  she  ;  "  I  don't  ap 
prove  of  free-will,  and  I  ain't  afraid  to  say  it." 

Sylvia  had  always  been  considered  very  unlike 
Mrs.  Hannah  Berry  in  face  and  character.  Now,  as 
she  stood  before  her,  a  curious  similarity  appeared ; 
even  her  voice  sounded  like  her  sister's. 

"What  on  earth  ails  you,  Sylvy?"  asked  Mrs. 
Berry,  ignoring  suddenly  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  Nothin'  ails  me  that  I  know  of.  I  don't  think 
much  of  free-will,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  I  do  when 
I  don't." 

"Then  all  I've  got  to  say  is  you'd  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  Why,  I  should  think  you  was 


42 


crazy,  Sylvy  Crane,  settin'  up  yourself  agin'  the  doc 
trines  of  the  Word.  I'd  like  to  know  what  you 
know  about  them." 

"  I  know  enough  to  see  how  they  work,"  returned 
Sylvia,  undauntedly,  "an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  pretend 
I'm  blind  when  I  can  see." 

Sylvia's  serene  arc  of  white  forehead  was  short 
ened  by  a  distressed  frown,  her  mild  mouth  dropped 
sourly  at  the  corners,  and  the  lips  were  compressed. 
Her  white  cap  was  awry,  and  one  of  yesterday's  curls 
hung  lankly  over  her  left  cheek. 

"  You  look  an'  act  like  a  crazy  creature,"  said 
Hannah  Berry,  eying  her  with  indignant  amazement. 
She  walked  across  the  room  to  another  rocking-chair, 
moving  with  unexpected  heaviness.  She  was  in 
reality  as  stout  as  her  sister  Sarah  Barnard,  but  she 
had  a  long,  thin,  and  rasped  face,  which  misled 
people. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  looking  around  conclusively,  "  I 
ain't  come  over  here  to  argue  about  free-will.  I 
want  to  know  what  all  this  is  about?" 

"  All  what  ?"  returned  Mrs.  Barnard,  feebly.  She 
was  distinctly  afraid  of  her  imperious  sister,  yet  she 
was  conscious  of  a  quiver  of  resentment. 

"  All  this  fuss  about  Barney  Thayer,"  said  Hannah 
Berry. 

"  How  did  you  hear  about  it  ?"  Mrs.  Barnard  asked 
with  a  glance  at  Charlotte,  who  was  sitting  erect 
with  her  cheeks  very  red  and  her  mouth  tightly 
closed. 


43 


"  Never  mind  how  I  heard,"  replied  Hannah.  "  I 
did  hear,  an'  that's  enough.  Now  I  want  to  know  if 
you're  really  goin'  to  set  down  like  an  old  hen  an' 
give  up,  an'  let  this  match  between  Charlotte  an'  a 
good,  smart,  likely  young  man  like  Barnabas  Thayer 
be  broken  off  on  account  of  Cephas  Barnard's  crazy 
freaks  ?" 

Sarah  stiffened  her  neck.  "  There  ain't  no  call  for 
you  to  speak  that  way,  Hannah.  They  got  to  talkin' 
over  the  'lection." 

"  The  'lection  !  I'd  like  to  know  what  business 
they  had  talkin'  about  it  Sabbath  night  anyway  ?  I 
ain't  blamin'  Barnabas  so  much  ;  he's  younger  an' 
easier  stirred  up  ;  but  Cephas  Barnard  is  an  old  man, 
an'  he  has  been  a  church-member  for  forty  year,  an' 
he  ought  to  know  enough  to  set  a  better  example. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  difference  it  makes  about  the 
'lection  anyway  ?  What  odds  does  it  make  which 
one  is  President  if  he  rules  the  country  well?  An' 
that  they  can't  tell  till  they've  tried  him  awhile  any 
way.  I  guess  they  don't  think  much  about  the 
country  ;  it's  jest  to  have  their  own  way  about  it. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  mortal  difference  it's  goin'  to 
make  to  Barney  Thayer  or  Cephas  Barnard  which 
man  is  President?  He  won't  never  hear  of  them, 
an'  they  won't  neither  of  them  make  him  rule  any 
different  after  he's  chose.  It's  jest  like  two  little 
boys  —  one  wants  to  play  marbles  'cause  the  other 
wants  to  play  puss -in -the -corner,  an'  that's  all  the 
reason  either  one  of  'em's  got  for  standin'  out.  Men 


44 


ain't  got  any  too  much  sense  anyhow,  when  you  come 
right  down  to  it.  They  don't  ever  get  any  too  much 
grown  up,  the  best  of  'em.  I'd  like  to  know  what 
Cephas  Barnard  has  got  to  say  because  he's  drove  a 
good,  likely  young  man  like  Barnabas  Thayer  off  an' 
broke  off  his  daughter's  match  ?  It  ain't  likely  she'll 
ever  get  anybody  now ;  young  men  like  him,  with 
nice  new  houses  put  up  to  go  right  to  housekeepin' 
in  as  soon  as  they  are  married,  don't  grow  on  every 
bush.  They  ain't  quite  so  thick  as  wild  thimbleber- 
ries.  An'  Charlotte  ain't  got  any  money  herself,  an' 
her  father  ain't  got  any  to  build  a  house  for  her. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  he's  got  to  say  about  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Barnard  put  up  her  apron  and  began  to  weep 
helplessly. 

"  Don't,  mother,"  said  Charlotte,  in  an  undertone. 
But  her  mother  began  talking  in  a  piteous  wailing 
fashion. 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  talk  so  about  Cephas,"  she 
moaned.  "  He's  my  husband.  I  guess  you  wouldn't 
like  it  if  anybody  talked  so  about  your  husband. 
Cephas  ain't  any  worse  than  anybody  else.  It's  jest 
his  way.  He  wa'n't  any  more  to  blame  than  Barney  ; 
they  both  got  to  talkin'.  I  know  Cephas  is  terrible 
upset  about  it  this  mornin' ;  he  'ain't  really  said  so 
in  so  many  words,  but  I  know  by  the  way  he  acts. 
He  said  this  mornin'  that  he  didn't  know  but  we  were 
eatin'  the  wrong  kind  of  food.  Lately  he's  had  an 
idea  that  mebbe  we'd  ought  to  eat  more  meat ;  he's 
thought  it  was  more  strengthening  an'  we'd  ought  to 


45 


cat  things  as  near  like  what  we  wanted  to  strengthen 
as  could  be.  I've  made  a  good  deal  o"f  bone  soup. 
But  now  he  says  he  thinks  mebbe  he's  been  mis 
taken,  an'  animal  food  kind  of  quickens  the  animal 
nature  in  us,  an'  that  we'd  better  eat  green  things 
an'  garden  sass." 

"  I  guess  garden  sass  will  strengthen  the  other 
kind  of  sass  that  Cephas  Barnard  has  got  in  him  full 
as  much  as  bone  soup  has,"  interrupted  Hannah 
Berry,  with  a  sarcastic  sniff. 

"  I  dunno  but  he's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Barnard. 
"  Cephas  thinks  a  good  deal  an'  looks  into  things. 
I  kind  of  wish  he'd  waited  till  the  garden  had  got 
started,  though,  for  there  ain't  much  we  can  eat  now 
but  potatoes  an'  turnips  an'  dandelion  greens." 

"  If  you  want  to  live  on  potatoes  an'  turnips  an' 
dandelion  greens,  you  can,"  cried  Hannah  Berry  ; 
"  what  I  want  to  know  is  if  you're  goin'  to  settle 
down  an'  say  nothin',  an*  have  Charlotte  lose  the 
best  chance  she'll  ever  have  in  her  life,  if  she  lives 
to  be  a  hundred — " 

Charlotte  spoke  up  suddenly ;  her  blue  eyes  gleamed 
with  steely  light.  She  held  her  head  high  as  she 
faced  her  aunt. 

"  I  don't  want  any  more  talk  about  it,  Aunt  Han 
nah,"  said  she. 

«  Hey  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  any  more  talk  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you'll  have  more  talk  about  it ; 
girls  don't  get  jilted  without  there  is  talk  gener- 


46 


ally.  I  guess  you'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind  to 
it,  for  all  you  put  on  such  airs  with  your  own  aunt, 
who  left  her  washin'  an'  come  over  here  to  take  your 
part,  I  guess  when  you  stand  out  in  the  road  half 
an  hour  an'  call  a  young  man  to  come  back,  an'  he 
don't  come,  that  folks  are  goin'  to  talk  some.  Who's 
that  comin'  now  ?" 

"  It's  Cephas/'  whispered  Mrs.  Barnard,  with  a 
scared  glance  at  Charlotte. 

Cephas  Barnard  entered  abruptly,  and  stood  for  a 
second  looking  at  the  company,  while  they  looked 
back  at  him.  His  eyes  were  stolidly  defiant,  but  he 
stood  well  back,  and  almost  shrank  against  the  door. 
There  seemed  to  be  impulses  in  Hannah's  and  Syl 
via's  faces  confronting  his. 

He  turned  to  his  wife.  "  When  you  comin'  home  ?" 
said  he. 

"  Oh,  Cephas  !  I  jest  run  over  here  a  minute.  I — 
wanted  to  see — if  —  Sylvy  had  any  emptins.  Do 
you  want  me  an'  Charlotte  to  come  now  ?" 

Cephas  turned  on  his  heel.  "  I  think  it's  about 
time  for  you  both  to  be  home,"  he  grunted. 

Sarah  Barnard  arose  and  looked  with  piteous  ap 
peal  at  Charlotte. 

Charlotte  hesitated  a  second,  then  she  arose  with 
out  a  word,  and  followed  her  mother,  who  followed 
Cephas.  They  went  in  a  procession  of  three,  with 
Cephas  marching  ahead  like  a  general,  across  the 
yard,  and  Sylvia  and  Hannah  stood  at  a  window 
watching  them. 


"  Well,"  said  Hannah  Berry,  "  all  I've  got  to  say 
is  I'm  thankful  I  'ain't  got  a  man  like  that,  an'  you 
ought  to  be  mighty  thankful  you  'ain't  got  any  man 
at  all,  Sylvy  Crane." 


CHAPTER   III 

WHEN  Cephas  Barnard  and  his  wife  and  daughter 
turned  into  the  main  road  and  came  in  sight  of  the 
new  house,  not  one  of  them  appeared  to  even  glance 
at  it,  yet  they  all  saw  at  once  that  there  were  no 
workmen  about,  and  they  also  saw  Barnabas  himself 
ploughing  with  a  white  horse  far  back  in  a  field  at 
the  left  of  it. 

They  all  kept  on  silently.  Charlotte  paled  a  little 
when  she  caught  sight  of  Barney,  but  her  face  was 
quite  steady.  "  Hold  your  dress  up  a  little  higher ; 
the  grass  is  terrible  wet,"  her  mother  whispered 
once,  and  that  was  all  that  any  of  them  said  until 
they  reached  home. 

Charlotte  went  at  once  up-stairs  to  her  own  cham 
ber,  took  off  her  purple  gown,  and  hung  it  up  in  her 
closet,  and  got  out  a  common  one.  The  purple  gown 
was  part  of  her  wedding  wardrobe,  and  she  had  worn 
it  in  advance  with  some  misgivings.  "  I  dunno  but 
you  might  jest  as  well  wear  it  a  few  Sundays,"  her 
mother  had  said ;  "  you're  goin'  to  have  your  silk 
dress  to  come  out  bride  in.  I  dunno  as  there's  any 
sense  in  your  goin'  lookin'  like  a  scarecrow  all  the 
spring  because  you're  goin'  to  get  married." 

So  Charlotte  had  put  on  the  new  purple  dress  the 


49 


day  before ;  now  it  looked,  as  it  hung  in  the  closet, 
like  an  effigy  of  her  happier  self. 

When  Charlotte  went  down-stairs  she  found  her 
mother  showing  much  more  spirit  than  usual  in  an 
altercation  with  her  father.  Sarah  Barnard  stood  be 
fore  her  husband,  her  placid  face  all  knitted  with 
perplexed  remonstrance.  "  Why,  I  can't,  Cephas," 
she  said.  "  Pies  can't  be  made  that  way." 

"  I  know  they  can,"  said  Cephas. 

"  They  can't,  Cephas.  There  ain't  no  use  tryin'. 
It  would  jest  be  a  waste  of  the  flour." 

"  Why  can't  they,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Folks  don't  ever  make  pies  without  lard,  Cephas." 

"  Why  don't  they  ?" 

"  Why,  they  wouldn't  be  nothin'  more  than —  You 
couldn't  eat  them  nohow  if  they  was  made  so,  Ce 
phas.  I  dunno  how  the  sorrel  pies  would  work.  I 
never  heard  of  anybody  makin'  sorrel  pies.  .  Mebbe 
the  Injuns  did ;  but  I  dunno  as  they  ever  made  pies, 
anyway.  Mebbe  the  sorrel,  if  it  had  some  molasses 
on  it  for  juice,  wouldn't  taste  very  bad;  I  dunno; 
but  anyway,  if  the  sorrel  did  work,  the  other  wouldn't. 
I  can't  make  pies  fit  to  eat  without  any  lard  or  any 
butter  or  anything  any  way  in  the  world,  Cephas." 

"  I  know  you  can  make  'em  without,"  said  Cephas, 
and  his  black  eyes  looked  like  flint.  Mrs.  Barnard 
appealed  to  her  daughter. 

"  Charlotte,"  said  she,  "  you  tell  your  father  that 
pies  can't  be  made  fit  to  eat  without  I  put  somethin' 
in  'em  for  short'nin'." 

4 


50 


"  No,  they  can't,  father,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  He  wants  me  to  make  sorrel  pies,  Charlotte," 
Mrs.  Barnard  went  on,  in  an  injured  and  appealing 
tone  which  she  seldom  used  against  Cephas.  "  He's 
been  out  in  the  field,  an'  picked  all  that  sorrel,"  and 
she  pointed  to  a  pan  heaped  up  with  little  green 
leaves  on  the  table,  "an'  I  tell  him  I  dunno  how 
that  will  work,  but  he  wants  me  to  make  the  pie 
crust  without  a  mite  of  short'nin',  an'  I  can't  do  that 
nohow,  can  I  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can,"  assented  Charlotte, 
coldly. 

Cephas  went  with  a  sudden  stride  towards  the 
pantry.  "  I'll  make  'em  myself,  then,"  he  cried. 

Mrs.  Barnard  gasped,  and  looked  piteously  at  her 
daughter.  "  What  you  goin'  to  do,  Cephas  ?"  she 
asked,  feebly. 

Cephas  was  in  the  pantry  rattling  the  dishes  with 
a  fierce  din.  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  make  them  sorrel  pies 
myself,"  he  shouted  out,  "  if  none  of  you  women 
folks  know  enough  to." 

44  Oh,  Cephas,  you  can't !" 

Cephas  came  out,  carrying  the  mixing -board  and 
rolling-pin  like  a  shield  and  a  club;  he  clapped  them 
heavily  on  to  the  table. 

Mrs.  Barnard  stood  staring  aghast  at  him ;  Char 
lotte  sat  down,  took  some  lace  edging  from  her  pock 
et,  and  began  knitting  on  it.  She  looked  hard  and 
indifferent. 

"Oh,  Charlotte,  ain't  it  dreadful?"   her   mother 


51 


whispered,  when  Cephas  went  into  the  pantry 
again. 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  makes  pies  out  of  burrs,"  re 
turned  Charlotte,  audibly,  but  her  voice  was  quite  even. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  but  what  sorrel  would  do  some 
better  than  burrs,"  said  her  mother,  "but  he  can't 
make  pies  without  short'nin'  nohow." 

Cephas  came  out  of  the  pantry  with  a  large  bowl 
of  flour  and  a  spoon.  "He  'ain't  sifted  it,"  Mrs. 
Barnard  whispered  to  Charlotte,  as  though  Cephas 
were  not  there ;  then  she  turned  to  him.  "  You 
sifted  the  flour,  didn't  you,  Cephas  ?"  said  she. 

"You  jest  let  me  alone,"  said  Cephas,  grimly. 
"  I'm  goin'  to  make  these  pies,  an'  I  don't  need  any 
help.  I've  picked  the  sorrel,  an'  I've  got  the  brick 
oven  all  heated,  an'  I  know  what  I  want  to  do,  an' 
I'm  goin  to  do  it !" 

"  I've  got  some  pumpkin  that  would  make  full  as 
good  pies  as  sorrel,  Cephas.  Mebbe  the  sorrel  will 
be  real  good.  I  ain't  sayin'  it  won't,  though  I  never 
heard  of  sorrel  pies;  but  you  know  pumpkin  is  good, 
Cephas." 

"  I  know  pumpkin  pies  have  milk  in  'em,"  said  Ce 
phas  ;  "  an'  I  tell  you  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  anything 
of  an  animal  nature  in  'em.  I've  been  study  in'  into 
it,  an'  thinkin'  of  it,  an'  I've  made  up  my  mind  that 
I've  made  a  mistake  along  back,  an'  we've  ate  too 
much  animal  food.  We've  ate  a  whole  pig  an'  half 
a  beef  critter  this  winter,  to  say  nothin'  of  eggs  an' 
milk,  that  are  jest  as  much  animal  as  meat,  accordin' 


to  my  way  of  thinkin'.  I've  reasoned  it  out  all  along 
that  as  long  as  we  were  animals  ourselves,  an'  wanted 
to  strengthen  animal,  that  it  was  common-sense  that 
we  ought  to  eat  animal.  It  seemed  to  me  that  nat 
ure  had  so  ordered  it.  I  reasoned  it  out  that  other 
animals  besides  man  lived  on  animals,  except  cows, 
an'  they,  bein'  ruminatin'  animals,  ain't  to  be  com 
pared  to  men — " 

"I  should  think  we'd  be  somethin'  like  'em  if  we 
eat  that,"  said  Mrs.  Barnard,  pointing  at  the  sorrel, 
with  piteous  sarcasm. 

"  It's  the  principle  I'm  thinkin'  about,"  said  Ce 
phas.  He  stirred  some  salt  into  the  flour  very  care 
fully,  so  not  a  dust  fell  over  the  brim  of  the  bowl. 

"  Horses  don't  eat  meat,  neither,  an'  they  don't 
chew  their  cuds,"  Mrs.  Barnard  argued  further.  She 
had  never  in  her  life  argued  with  Cephas ;  but  sorrel 
pies,  after  the  night  before,  made  her  wildly  reckless. 

Cephas  got  a  gourdful  of  water  from  the  pail  in 
the  sink,  and  carried  it  carefully  over  to  the  table. 
"  Horses  are  the  exception,"  he  returned,  with  digni 
fied  asperity.  "  There  always  are  exceptions.  What 
I  was  comin'  at  was — I'd  been  kind  of  wrong  in  my 
reasonin'.  That  is,  I  'ain't  reasoned  far  enough.  I 
was  right  so  far  as  I  went." 

Cephas  poured  some  water  from  the  gourd  into 
the  bowl  of  flour  and  began  stirring. 

Sarah  caught  her  breath.  "He's  makin' — paste  !" 
she  gasped.  "  He's  jest  makin'  flour  paste  !" 

"  Jest  so  far  as  T  went  I  was  right,"  Cephas  re- 


53 


sumed,  pouring  in  a  little  more  water  with  a  judicial 
air.  "  I  said  Man  was  animal,  an'  he  is  animal ;  an' 
if  you  don't  take  anything  else  into  account,  he'd 
ought  to  live  on  animal  food,  jest  the  way  I  reasoned 
it  out.  But  you've  got  to  take  something  else  into 
account.  Man  is  animal,  but  he  ain't  all  animal. 
He's  something  else.  He's  spiritual.  Man  has  com 
mand  over  all  the  other  animals,  an'  all  the  beasts  of 
the  field ;  an'  it  ain't  because  he's  any  better  an' 
stronger  animal,  because  he  ain't.  What's  a  man  to 
a  horse,  if  the  horse  only  knew  it  ?  but  the  horse 
don't  know  it,  an'  there's  jest  where  Man  gets  the 
advantage.  It's  knowledge  an'  spirit  that  gives  Man 
the  rule  over  all  the  other  animals.  Now,  what  we 
want  is  to  eat  the  kind  of  things  that  will  strengthen 
knowledge  an'  spirit  an'  self-control,  because  the  first 
two  ain't  any  account  without  the  last;  but  there 
ain't  no  kind  of  food  that's  known  that  can  do  that. 
If  there  is,  I  'ain't  never  heard  of  it." 

Cephas  dumped  the  whole  mass  of  paste  with  a 
flop  upon  the  mixing -board,  and  plunged  his  fists 
into  it.  Sarah  made  an  involuntary  motion  forward, 
then  she  stood  back  with  a  great  sigh. 

"  But  what  we  can  do,"  Cephas  proceeded,  "  is  to 
eat  the  kind  of  things  that  won't  strengthen  the  an 
imal  nature  at  the  expense  of  the  spiritual.  We  know 
that  animal  food  does  that ;  we  can  see  how  it  works 
in  tigers  an'  bears.  Now,  it's  the  spiritual  part  of  us 
we  want  to  strengthen,  because  that  is  the  biggest 
strength  we  can  get,  an'  it's  worth  more.  It's  what 


gives  us  the  rule  over  animals.  It's  better  for  us  to 
eat  some  other  kind  of  food,  if  we  get  real  weak  and 
pindlin'  on  it,  rather  than  eat  animal  food  an'  make 
the  animal  in  us  stronger  than  the  spiritual,  so  we 
won't  be  any  better  than  wild  tigers  an'  bears,  an' 
lose  our  rule  over  the  other  animals." 

Cephas' took  the  rolling-pin  and  brought  it  heavily 
down  upon  the  sticky  mass  on  the  board.  Sarah 
shuddered  and  started  as  if  it  had  hit  her.  "  Now, 
if  we  can't  eat  animal  food,"  said  Cephas,  "  what 
other  kind  of  food  can  we  eat  ?  There  ain't  but  one 
other  kind  that's  known  to  man,  an'  that's  vegetable 
food,  the  product  of  the  earth.  An'  that's  of  two 
sorts :  one  gets  ripe  an'  fit  to  eat  in  the  fall  of  the 
year,  an'  the  other  comes  earlier  in  the  spring  an' 
summer.  Now,  in  order  to  carry  out  the  plans  of 
nature,  we'd  ought  to  eat  these  products  of  the  earth 
jest  as  near  as  we  can  in  the  season  of  'em.  Some 
had  ought  to  be  eat  in  the  fall  an'  winter,  an'  some 
in  the  spring  an'  summer.  Accordin'  to  my  reasonin', 
if  we  all  lived  this  way  we  should  be  a  good  deal 
better  off;  our  spiritual  natures  would  be  strength 
ened,  an'  we  should  have  more  power  over  other  an 
imals,  an'  better  dispositions  ourselves." 

"  I've  seen  horses  terribly  ugly,  an'  they  don't  eat 
a  mite  of  meat,"  said  Sarah,  with  tremulous  boldness. 
Her  right  hand  kept  moving  forward  to  clutch  the 
rolling-pin,  then  she  would  draw  it  back. 

"  'Ain't  I  told  ye  once  horses  were  the  exceptions?" 
said  Cephas,  severely.  "  There  has  to  be  exceptions. 


55 


If  there  wa'n't  any  exceptions  there  couldn't  be  any 
rule,  an'  there  bein'  exceptions  shows  there  is  a  rule. 
Women  can't  ever  get  hold  of  things  straight.  Their 
minds  slant  off  sideways,  the  way  their  arms  do  when 
they  fling  a  stone." 

Cephas  brought  the  rolling-pin  down  upon  the 
paste  again  with  fierce  impetus.  "You'll  break  it," 
Sarah  murmured,  feebly.  Cephas  brought  it  down 
again,  his  mouth  set  hard ;  his  face  showed  a  red 
flush  through  his  white  beard,  the  veins  on  his  high 
forehead  were  swollen  and  his  brows  scowling.  The 
paste  adhered  to  the  rolling-pin  ;  he  raised  it  with 
an  effort;  his  hands  were  helplessly  sticky.  Sarah 
could  restrain  herself  no  longer.  She  went  into  the 
pantry  and  got  a  dish  of  flour,  and  spooned  out 
some  suddenly  over  the  board  and  Cephas's  hands. 
"You've  got  to  have  some  more  flour,"  she  said,  in 
a  desperate  tone. 

Cephas's  black  eyes  flashed  at  her.  "  I  wish  you 
would  attend  to  your  own  work,  an'  leave  me  alone," 
said  he.  But  at  last  he  succeeded  in  moving  the  roll 
ing-pin  over  the  dough  as  he  had  seen  his  wife  move  it. 

"  He  ain't  greasin'  the  pie-plates,"  said  Sarah,  as 
Cephas  brought  a  piece  of  dough  with  a  dexterous 
jerk  over  a  plate ;  "  there  ain't  much  animal  in  the 
little  mite  of  lard  it  takes  to  grease  a  plate." 

Cephas  spread  handfuls  of  sorrel  leaves  over  the 
dough  ;  then  he  brought  the  molasses-jug  from  the 
pantry,  raised  it,  and  poured  molasses  over  the  sorrel 
with  an  imperturbable  air. 


56 


Sarah  watched  him ;  then  she  turned  to  Charlotte. 
"  To  think  of  eatin'  it !"  she  groaned,  quite  openly ; 
"  it  looks  like  p'ison." 

Charlotte  made  no  response  ;  she  knitted  as  one  of 
the  Fates  might  have  spun.  Sarah  sank  down  on  a 
chair,  and  looked  away  from  Cephas  and  his  cookery, 
as  if  she  were  overcome,  and  quite  done  with  all  re 
monstrance. 

Never  before  had  she  shown  so  much  opposition 
towards  one  of  her  husband's  hobbies,  but  this  gal 
loped  so  ruthlessly  over  her  own  familiar  fields 
that  she  had  plucked  up  boldness  to  try  to  veer  it 
away. 

Somebody  passed  the  window  swiftly,  the  door 
opened  abruptly,  and  Mrs.  Deborah  Thayer  entered. 
"  6W£-mornin',"  said  she,  and  her  voice  rang  out 
like  a  herald's  defiance. 

Sarah  Barnard  arose,  and  went  forward  quickly. 
"  Good-mornin',"  she  responded,  with  nervous  eager 
ness.  "Good-mornin',  Mis'  Thayer.  Come  in  an' 
set  down,  won't  you  ?" 

"  I  'ain't  come  to  set  down,"  responded  Deborah's 
deep  voice. 

She  moved,  a  stately  high-hipped  figure,  her  severe 
face  almost  concealed  in  a  scooping  green  barege 
hood,  to  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  stood  there  with 
a  pose  that  might  have  answered  for  a  statue  of 
Judgment.  She  turned  her  green-hooded  head  slowly 
towards  them  all  in  turn.  Sarah  watched  her  and 
waited,  her  eyes  dilated.  Cephas  rolled  out  another 


57 


pie,  calmly.  Charlotte  knitted  fast;  her  face  was 
very  pale. 

"  I've  come  over  here,"  said  Deborah  Thayer,  "  to 
find  out  what  my  son  has  done." 

There  was  not  a  sound,  except  the  thud  of  Cephas's 
rolling-pin. 

"  Mr.  Barnard  !"  said  Deborah.  Cephas  did  not 
seem  to  hear  her. 

"  Mr.  Barnard  !"  she  said,  again.  There  was  that 
tone  of  command  in  her  voice  which  only  a  woman 
can  accomplish.  It  was  full  of  that  maternal  suprem 
acy  which  awakens  the  first  instinct  of  obedience  in 
man,  and  has  more  weight  than  the  voice  of  a  gen 
eral  in  battle.  Cephas  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  he 
spoke.  "  What  is  it  ye  want  ?"  he  said,  gruffly. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  my  son  has  done,  an'  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  in  so  many  words.  I  ain't  afraid 
to  face  it.  What  has  my  son  done  ?" 

Cephas  grunted  something  inarticulate. 

"  What  ?"  said  Deborah.  "  I  can't  hear  what  you 
say.  I  want  to  know  what  my  son  has  done.  I've 
heard  how  you  turned  him  out  of  your  house  last 
night,  and  I  want  to  know  what  it  was  for.  I  want 
to  know  what  he  has  done.  You're  an  old  man,  and 
a  God-fearing  one,  if  you  have  got  your  own  ideas 
about  some  things.  Barnabas  is  young,  and  apt  to 
be  headstrong.  He  ain't  always  been  as  mindful  of 
obedience  as  he  might  be.  I've  tried  to  do  my  best 
by  him,  but  he  don't  always  carry  out  my  teachin's. 
I  ain't  afraid  to  say  this,  if  he  is  my  son.  I  want  to 


58 


know  what  he's  done.  If  it's  anything  wrong,  I 
shall  be  jest  as  hard  on  him  as  the  Lord  for  it.  I'm 
his  mother,  but  I  can  see  his  faults,  and  be  just.  I 
want  to  know  what  he  has  done." 

Charlotte  gave  one  great  cry.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Thayer, 
he  hasn't  done  anything  wrong ;  Barney  hasn't  done 
anything  wrong !" 

But  Deborah  quite  ignored  her.  She  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  Cephas.  ."  What  has  my  son  done  ?" 
she  demanded  again.  "  If  he's  done  anything  wrong 
I  want  to  know  it.  I  ain't  afraid  to  deal  with  him. 
You  ordered  him  out  of  your  house,  and  he  didn't 
come  home  at  all  last  night.  I  don't  know  where  he 
was.  He  won't  speak  a  word  this  mornin'  to  tell  me. 
I've  been  out  in  the  field  where  he's  to  work  ploughing 
and  I  tried  to  make  him  tell  me,  but  he  wouldn't  say 
a  word.  I  sat  up  and  waited  all  night,  but  he  didn't 
come  home.  Now  I  want  to  know  where  he  was, 
and  what  he's  done,  and  why  you  ordered  him  out  of 
the  house.  If  he's  been  swearin',  or  takin'  anything 
that  didn't  belong  to  him,  or  drinkin',  I  want  to 
know  it,  so  I  can  deal  with  him  as  his  mother  had 
ought  to  deal." 

"  He  hasn't  been  doing  anything  wrong!"  Charlotte 
cried  out  again  ;  "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self  talking  so  about  him,  when  you're  his  mother !" 

Deborah  Thayer  never  glanced  at  Charlotte.  She 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Cephas.  "  What  has  he 
done  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  I  guess  he  didn't  do  much  of  anything,"  Mrs. 


59 


Barnard  murmured,  feebly ;  but  Deborah  did  not 
seem  to  hear  her. 

Cephas  opened  his  mouth  as  if  perforce.  "  Well," 
he  said,  slowly,  "  we  got  to  talkin ' — " 

"Talkin'  about  what?" 

"  About  the  'lection.  I  think,  accordin'  to  my 
reasoning  that  what  we  eat  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  it." 

"What?" 

"  I  think  if  you'd  kept  your  family  on  less  meat,  and 
given  'em  more  garden-stuff  to  eat  Barney  wouldn't 
have  been  so  up  an'  comin'.  It's  what  he's  eat  that's 
made  him  what  he  is." 

Deborah  stared  at  Cephas  in  stern  amazement. 
"  You're  tryin'  to  make  out,  as  near  as  I  can  tell," 
said  she,  "  that  whatever  my  son  has  done  wrong  is 
due  to  what  he's  eat,  and  not  to  original  sin.  I  knew 
you  had  queer  ideas,  Cephas  Barnard,  but  I  didn't 
know  you  wa'n't  sound  in  your  faith.  What  I  want 
to  know  is,  what  has  he  done  ?" 

Suddenly  Charlotte  sprang  up,  and  pushed  herself 
in  between  her  father  and  Mrs.  Thayer ;  she  con 
fronted  Deborah,  and  compelled  her  to  look  at  her. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  he's  done,"  she  said,  fiercely. 
"  I  know  what  he's  done ;  you  listen  to  me.  He  has 
done  nothing— nothing  that  you've  got  to  deal  with 
him  for.  You  needn't  feel  obliged  to  deal  with  him. 
He  and  father  got  into  a  talk  over  the  'lection,  and 
they  had  words  about  it.  He  didn't  talk  any  worse 
than  father,  not  a  mite.  Father  started  it,  anyway, 


and  he  knew  better;  he  knew  just  how  set  Barney 
was  on  his  own  side,  and  how  set  he  was  on  his ;  he 
wanted  to  pick  a  quarrel." 

"  Charlotte  !"  shouted  Cephas. 

"You  keep  still,  father,"  returned  Charlotte,  with 
steady  fierceness.  "  I've  never  set  myself  up  against 
you  in  my  whole  life  before ;  but  now  I'm  going  to, 
because  it's  just  and  right.  Father  wanted  to  pick 
a  quarrel,"  she  repeated,  turning  to  Deborah ;  "  he's 
been  kind  of  grouty  to  Barney  for  some  time.  I 
don't  know  why  ;  he  took  a  notion  to,  I  suppose. 
When  they  got  to  having  words  about  the  'lection, 
father  begun  it.  I  heard  him.  Barney  answered 
back,  and  I  didn't  blame  him  ;  I  would,  in  his  place. 
Then  father  ordered  him  out  of  the  house,  and  he 
went.  I  don't  see  what  else  he  could  do.  And  I 
don't  blame  him  because  he  didn't  go  home  if  he 
didn't  feel  like  it." 

"  Didn't  he  go  away  from  here  before  nine 
o'clock?"  demanded  Deborah,  addressing  Charlotte 
at  last. 

"  Yes,  he  did,  some  time  before  nine ;  he  had 
plenty  of  time  to  go  home  if  he  wanted  to." 

"  Where  was  he,  then,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  and  I  wouldn't  lift  my  finger  to 
find  out.  I  am  not  afraid  he  was  anywhere  he  hadn't 
ought  to  be,  nor  doin'  anything  he  hadn't  ought  to." 

"  Didn't  you  stand  out  in  the  road  and  call  him 
back,  and  he  wouldn't  come,  nor  even  turn  his  head 
to  look  at  you  ?"  asked  Deborah. 


Gl 


"  Yes,  I  did,"  returned  Charlotte,  unflinchingly. 
"  And  I  don't  blame  him  for  not  coming  back  and 
not  turning  his  head.  I  wouldn't  if  I'd  been  in  his 
place." 

"You'll  have  to  uphold  him  a  long  time,  then;  I 
can  tell  you  that,"  said  Deborah.  "  He  won't  never 
come  back  if  he's  said  he  won't.  I  know  him  ;  he's 
got  some  of  me  in  him." 

"  I'll  uphold  him  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  Charlotte. 
"  I  wonder  you  ain't  ashamed  to  talk  so." 
"  I  am  not." 

Deborah  looked  at  Charlotte  as  if  she  would  crush 
her ;  then  she  turned  away. 

"  You're  a  hard  woman,  Mrs.  Thayer,  and  I  pity 
Barney  because  he's  got  you  for  a  mother,"  Charlotte 
said,  in  undaunted  response  to  Deborah's  look. 

"  Well,  you'll  never  have  to  pity  yourself  on  that 
account,"  retorted  Deborah,  without  turning  her 
head. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  a  girl  of  about  Char 
lotte's  age  slipped  in.  Nobody  except  Mrs.  Barnard, 
who  said,  absently,  "  How  do  you  do,  Rose  ?"  seemed 
to  notice  her.  She  sat  down  unobtrusively  in  a  chair 
near  the  door  and  waited.  Her  blue  eyes  upon  the 
others  were  so  intense  with  excitement  that  they 
seemed  to  blot  out  the  rest  of  her  face.  She  had  her 
blue  apron  tightly  rolled  about  both  hands. 

Deborah  Thayer,  on  her  way  to  the  door,  looked 
at  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  part  of  the  wall,  but 
suddenly  she  stopped  and  cast  a  glance  at  Cephas. 


"  What  be  you  makin'  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  kind  of 
scorn  at  him,  and  scorn  at  her  own  curiosity. 

Cephas  did  not  reply,  but  he  looked  ugly  as  he 
slapped  another  piece  of  dough  heavily  upon  a  plate. 

Deborah,  as  if  against  her  will,  moved  closer  to  the 
table  and  bent  over  the  pan  of  sorrel.  She  smelled  of 
it ;  then  she  took  a  leaf  and  tasted  it,  cautiously.  She 
made  a  wry  face.  "  It's  sorrel,"  said  she.  "  You're 
makin'  pies  out  of  sorrel.  A  man  makin'  pies  out  of 
sorrel !" 

She  looked  at  Cephas  like  a  condemning  judge. 
He  shot  a  fiery  glance  at  her,  but  said  nothing.  He 
sprinkled  the  sorrel  leaves  in  the  pie. 

"  Well,"  said  Deborah,  "I've  got  a  sense  of  justice, 
and  if  my  son,  or  any  other  man,  has  asked  a  girl  to 
marry  him,  and  she's  got  her  weddin'  clothes  ready,  I 
believe  in  his  doin'  his  duty,  if  he  can  be  made  to ; 
but  I  must  say  if  it  wa'n't  for  that,  I'd  rather  he'd 
gone  into  a  family  that  was  more  like  other  folks. 
I'm  goin'  to  do  the  best  I  can,  whether  you  go  half 
way  or  not.  I'm  goin'  to  try  to  make  my  son  do  his 
duty.  I  don't  expect  he  will,  but  I  shall  do  all  I  can, 
tempers  or  no  tempers,  and  sorrel  pies  or  no  sorrel 
pies." 

Deborah  went  out,  and  shut  the  door  heavily  after 
her. 


CHAPTER   IV 

AFTER  Deborah  Thayer  had  shut  the  door,  the 
young  girl  sitting  beside  it  arose.  "  I  didn't  know 
she  was  in  here,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come  in,"  she 
said,  nervously. 

"  That  don't  make  any  odds,"  replied  Mrs.  Bar 
nard,  who  was  trembling  all  over,  and  had  sunk 
helplessly  into  a  rocking-chair,  which  she  swayed 
violently  and  unconsciously. 

Cephas  opened  the  door  of  the  brick  oven,  and 
put  in  a  batch  of  his  pies,  and  the  click  of  the  iron 
latch  made  her  start  as  if  it  were  a  pistol-shot. 

Charlotte  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room  with  a 
backward  glance  and  a  slight  beckoning  motion  of 
her  head,  and  the  girl  slunk  after  her  so  secretly 
that  it  seemed  as  if  she  did  not  see  herself.  Cephas 
looked  sharply  after  them,  but  said  nothing;  he  was 
like  a  philosopher  in  such  a  fury  of  research  and  ex 
periment  that  for  the  time  he  heeded  thoroughly 
nothing  else. 

The  young  girl,  who  was  Rose  Berry,  Charlotte's 
cousin,  followed  her  panting  up  the  steep  stairs  to 
her  chamber.  She  was  a  slender  little  creature,  and 
was  now  overwrought  with  nervous  excitement.  She 
fairly  gasped  for  breath  when  she  sat  down  in  the 


64 


little  wooden  chair  in  Charlotte's  room.  Charlotte 
sat  on  the  bed.  The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other 
— Rose  with  a  certain  wary  alarm  and  questioning  in 
her  eyes,  Charlotte  with  a  dignified  confidence  of 
misery. 

"  I  didn't  sleep  here  last  night,"  Charlotte  said, 
at  length. 

"  You  went  over  to  Aunt  Sylvy's,  didn't  you  ?" 
returned  Rose,  as  if  that  were  all  the  matter  in 
hand. 

Charlotte  nodded,  then  she  looked  moodily  past 
her  cousin's  face  out  of  the  window. 

"  You've  heard  about  it,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Char 
lotte. 

"Something,"  replied  Rose,  evasively. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  got  out,  for  my  part.  I  don't 
beiieve  he  told  anybody." 

Rose  flushed  all  over  her  little  eager  face  and  her 
thin  neck.  She  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak, 
then  shut  it  with  a  catch  of  her  breath. 

"  I  can't  imagine  how  it  got  out,"  repeated  Char 
lotte. 

Rose  looked  at  Charlotte  with  a  painful  effort ;  she 
clutched  her  hands  tightly  into  fists  as  she  spoke.  "  I 
was  coming  up  here  'cross  lots  last  night,  and  I  heard 
you  out  in  the  road  calling  Barney,"  she  said,  as  if 
she  forced  out  the  words. 

"  Rose  Berry,  you  didn't  tell !" 

"  I  went  home  and  told  mother,  that's  all.  I  didn't 
think  that  it  would  do  any  harm,  Charlotte." 


65 


"  It  '11  be  all  over  town,  that's  all.  It's  bad  enough, 
anyway." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  '11  get  out ;  I  told  mother  not  to 
tell." 

"  Mrs.  Thayer  knew," 

"  Maybe  Barney  told  her." 

"  Rose  Berry,  you  know  better.  You  know  Barney 
wouldn't  do  such  a  thing." 

"No  ;  I  don't  s'pose  he  would." 

"  Don't  suppose  !     Don't  you  know  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do.  I  know  Barney  just  as  well 
as  you  do,  Charlotte.  Oh,  Charlotte,  don't  feel  bad. 
I  wouldn't  have  told  mother  if  I'd  thought.  I  didn't 
mean  to  do  any  harm.  I  was  all  upset  myself  by  it. 
Don't  cry,  Charlotte." 

"  I  ain't  going  to  cry,"  said  Charlotte,  with  spirit. 
"  I've  stopped  cryin'."  She  wiped  her  eyes  forci 
bly  with  her  apron,  and  gave  her  head  a  proud  toss. 
"  I  know  you  didn't  mean  to  do  any  harm,  Rose,  and 
I  suppose  it  would  have  got  out  anyway.  'Most  every 
thing  does  get  out  but  good  deeds." 

"  I  truly  didn't  mean  to  do  any  harm,  Charlotte," 
Rose  repeated. 

"  I  know  you  didn't.  We  won't  say  any  more 
about  it." 

"  I  was  just  running  over  across  lots  last  night," 
Rose  said.  "  I  supposed  you'd  be  in  the  front  room 
with  Barney,  but  I  thought  I'd  see  Aunt  Sarah.  I'd 
got  terrible  lonesome ;  mother  had  gone  to  sleep  in 
her  chair,  arid  father  had  gone  to  bed.  When  I  got 


66 


out  by  the  stone-wall  next  the  wood  I  heard  you ; 
then  I  ran  right  back.  Don't  you  —  suppose  he'll 
ever  come  again,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Charlotte. 

."Oh,  Charlotte  !"  There  was  a  curious  quality  in 
the  girl's  voice,  as  if  some  great  hidden  emotion  in 
her  heart  tried  to  leap  to  the  surface  and  make  a 
sound,  although  it  was  totally  at  variance  with  the 
import  of  her  cry.  Charlotte  started,  without  know 
ing  why.  It  was  as  if  Rose's  words  and  her  tone 
had  different  meanings,  and  conflicted  like  the  wrong 
lines  with  a  tune. 

"  I  gave  it  up  last  night,"  said  Charlotte.  "  It's  all 
over.  I'm  goin'  to  pack  my  wedding  things  away." 

"  I  don't  see  what  makes  you  so  sure." 

"  I  know  him." 

"  But  I  don't  see  what  you've  done,  Charlotte ;  he 
didn't  quarrel  with  you." 

"  That  don't  make  any  odds.  He  can't  get  mar 
ried  to  me  now  without  he  breaks  his  will,  and  he 
can't.  He  can't  get  outside  himself  enough  to  break 
it.  I've  studied  it  all  out.  It's  like  ciphering.  It's 
all  over." 

"  Charlotte." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Why — couldn't  you  go  somewhere  else  to  get  mar 
ried?  What's  the  need  of  his  comin'  here,  if  he's 
been  ordered  out,  and  he's  said  he  wouldn't?" 

"  That's  just  the  letter  of  it,"  returned  Charlotte, 
scornfully.  "  Do  you  suppose  he  could  cheat  him- 


67 


self  that  way,  or  I'd  have  him  if  lie  could?  When 
Barney  Thayer  went  out  of  this  house  last  night,  and 
said  what  he  did,  he  meant  that  it  was  all  over,  that 
he  was  never  going  to  marry  me,  nor  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  us,  and  he's  going  to  stand  by  it.  I 
am  not  finding  any  fault  with  him.  I've  made  up  my 
mind  that  it's  all  over,  and  I'm  going  to  pack  away  my 
weddin'  things." 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,  you  take  it  so  calm  !" 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"  If  it  was  anybody  else,  I  should  think  they  didn't 
care." 

"  Maybe  I  don't." 

"  I  couldn't  bear  it  so,  anyhow  !  I  couldn't !"  Rose 
cried  out,  with  sudden  passion.  "  I  wouldn't  bear  it. 
I'd  go  down  on  my  knees  to  him  to  come  back!" 
Rose  flung  back  her  head  and  looked  at  Charlotte 
with  a  curious  defiance ;  her  face  grew  suddenly  in 
tense,  and  seemed  to  open  out  into  bloom  and  color 
like  a  flower.  The  pupils  of  her  blue  eyes  dilated 
until  they  looked  black;  her  thin  lips  looked  full 
and  red  ;  her  cheeks  were  flaming  ;  her  slender  chest 
heaved.  "  I  would,"  said  she ;  "  I  don't  care,  I 
would." 

Charlotte  looked  at  her,  and  a  quivering  flush  like 
a  reflection  was  left  on  her  fair,  steady  face. 

"  I  would,"  said  Rose  again. 

"  It  wouldn't  do  any  good." 

*'  It  would  if  he  cared  anything  about  you." 

"  It  would  if  he  could  give  up  to  the  care.    Barney 


68 


Thayer  has  got  a  terrible  will  that  won't  always  let 
him  do  what  he  wants  to  himself." 

"  I  don't  believe  he's  enough  of  a  fool  to  put  his 
own  eyes  out." 

"  You  don't  know  him.'-' 

"  I'd  try,  anyway." 

"  It  wouldn't  do  any  good." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  care  anything  about  him, 
Charlotte  Barnard !"  Rose  cried  out.  "  If  you  did, 
you  couldn't  give  him  up  so  easy  for  such  a  silly 
thing.  You  sit  there  just  as  calm.  I  don't  be 
lieve  but  what  you'll  have  another  fellow  on  the 
string  in  a  month.  I  know  one  that's  dying  to  get 
you." 

"  Maybe  I  shall,"  replied  Charlotte. 

"  Won't  you,  now  ?"  Rose  tried  to  speak  archly, 
but  her  eyes  were  fiercely  eager. 

"  I  can't  tell  till  I  get  home  from  the  grave,"  said 
Charlotte.  "  You  might  wait  till  I  did,  Rose."  She 
got  up  and  went  to  dusting  her  bureau  and  the  little 
gilt-framed  mirror  behind  it.  Her  lips  were  shut 
tightly,  and  she  never  looked  at  her  cousin. 

"  Now  don't  get  mad,  Charlotte,"  Rose  said.  "  May 
be  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  so,  but  it  did  seem  to 
me  you  couldn't  care  as  much —  It  does  seem  to 
me  I  couldn't  settle  down  and  be  so  calm  if  I  was  in 
your  place,  and  all  ready  to  be  married  to  anybody. 
I  should  want  to  do  something." 

"  I  should,  if  there  was  anything  to  do,"  said  Char 
lotte.  She  stopped  dusting  and  leaned  against  the 


69 


wall,  reflecting.  "  I  wish  it  was  a  real  mountain  to 
move,"  said  she  ;  "  I'd  do  it." 

"  I'd  go  right  down  in  the  field  where  he  is  plough 
ing,  and  I'd  make  him  say  he'd  come  to  see  me  to 
night." 

"  I  called  him  back  last  night — you  heard  me," 
said  Charlotte,  with  slow  bitterness.  Her  square 
delicate  chin  dipped  into  the  muslin  folds  of  her 
neckerchief;  she  looked  steadily  at  the  floor  and 
bent  her  brow. 

"  I'd  call  him  again." 

"You  would,  would  you  ?"  cried  Charlotte,  straight 
ening  herself.  "  You  would  stand  out  in  the  road 
and  keep  on  calling  a  man  who  wouldn't  even  turn 
his  head?  You'd  keep  on  calling,  and  let  all  the 
town  hear  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  would.  I  would  !  I  wouldn't  be  ashamed 
of  anything  if  I  was  going  to  marry  him.  I'd  go 
on  my  knees  before  him  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  the 
whole  town." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  I  would,  if  I  was  sure  he  thought  as  much  of 
me  as  I  did  of  him." 

Charlotte  looked  at  her  proudly.  "  I'm  sure  enough 
of  that,"  said  she. 

Rose  winced  a  little.  "  Then  I  wouldn't  mind  what 
I  did,"  she  persisted,  stubbornly. 

"  Well,  I  would,"  said  Charlotte ;  "  but  maybe  I 
don't  care.  Maybe  all  this  isn't  as  hard  for  me  as 
it  would  be  for  another  girl."  Charlotte's  voice 


70 


broke,  but  she  tossed  her  head  back  with  a  proud 
motion ;  she  took  up  the  dusting-cloth  and  fell  to 
work  again. 

"  Oh,  Charlotte  !"  said  Rose  ;  "  I  didn't  mean  that. 
Of  course  I  know  you  care.  It's  awful.  It  was 
only  because  I  didn't  see  how  you  could  seem  so 
calm  ;  it  ain't  like  me.  Of  course  I  know  you  feel 
bad  enough  underneath.  Your  wedding-clothes  all 
done  and  everything.  They  are  pretty  near  all  done, 
ain't  they,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Charlotte.  "  They're — pretty  near — 
done."  She  tried  to  speak  steadily,  but  her  voice 
failed.  Suddenly  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and 
hid  her  face,  and  her  whole  body  heaved  and  twisted 
with  great  sobs. 

"  Oh,  poor  Charlotte,  don't !"  Rose  cried,  wringing 
her  own  hands ;  her  face  quivered,  but  she  did  not 
weep. 

"Maybe  I  don't  care,"  sobbed  Charlotte;  "maybe 
— I  don't  care." 

"  Oh,  Charlotte !"  Rose  looked  at  Charlotte's  pite 
ous  girlish  shoulders  shaken  with  sobs,  and  the  fair 
prostrate  girlish  head.  Charlotte  all  drawn  up  in  this 
little  heap  upon  the  bed  looked  very  young  and  help 
less.  All  her  womanly  stateliness,  which  made  her 
seem  so  superior  to  Rose,  had  vanished.  Rose  pulled 
her  chair  close  to  the  bed,  sat  down,  and  laid  her 
little  thin  hand  on  Charlotte's  arm,  and  Charlotte 
directly  felt  it  hot  through  her  sleeve.  "  Don't,  Char 
lotte,"  Rose  said  ;  "  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  so." 


71 


"  Maybe  I  don't  care,"  Charlotte  sobbed  out  again. 
"  Maybe  I  don't," 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,  I'm  sorry,"  Rose  said,  trembling. 
"  I  do  know  you  care  ;  don't  you  feel  so  bad  because 
I  said  that." 

Rose  tightened  her  grasp  on  Charlotte's  arm  ;  her 
voice  changed  suddenly.  "Look  here,  Charlotte," 
said  she,  "  I'll  do  anything  in  the  world  I  can  to  help 
you  ;  I  promise  you  that,  and  I  mean  it,  honest." 

Charlotte  reached  around  a  hand,  and  clasped  her 
cousin's. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  so,"  Rose  said. 

"  Never  mind,"  Charlotte  responded,  chokingly. 
She  sobbed  a  little  longer  from  pure  inertia  of  grief  ; 
then  she  raised  herself,  shaking  off  Rose's  hand. 
"  It's  all  right,"  said  she  ;  >I  needn't  have  minded  ; 
I  know  you  didn't  mean  Anything.  It  was  just — the 
last  straw,  and  —  when  you  said  that  about  my  wed 
ding-clothes — " 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,  you  did  speak  about  them  yourself 
first,"  Rose  said,  deprecatingly. 

"I  did,  so  nobody  else  would,"  returned  Char 
lotte.  She  wiped  her  eyes,  drooping  her  stained 
face  away  from  her  cousin  with  a  kind  of  helpless 
shame;  then  she  smoothed  her 'hair  with  the  palms 
of  her  hands.  "  I  know  you  didn't  mean  any  harm, 
Rose,"  she  added,  presently.  "  I  got  my  silk  dress 
done  last  Wednesday  ;  I  wanted  to  tell  you."  Char 
lotte  tried  to  smile  at  Rose  with  her  poor  swollen 
lips  and  her  reddened  eyes. 


72 


"  I'm  sorry  I  said  anything,"  Rose  repeated ;  "  I 
ought  to  have  known  it  would  make  you  feel  bad, 
Charlotte." 

"No,  you  hadn't.  I  was  terrible  silly.  Don't  you 
want  to  see  my  dress,  Rose  ?" 

"  Oh,  Charlotte !  you  don't  want  to  show  it  to 
me?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  want  you  to  see  it — before  I  pack 
it  away.  It's  in  the  north  chamber." 

Rose  followed  Charlotte  out  of  the  room  across 
the  passageway  to  the  north  chamber.  Charlotte 
had  had  one  brother,  who  had  died  some  ten  years 
before,  when  he  was  twenty.  The  north  chamber 
had  been  his  room,  the  bureau  drawers  were  packed 
with  his  clothes,  and  the  silk  hat  which  had  been 
the  pride  of  his  early  manhood  hung  on  the  nail 
where  he  had  left  it,  and  also  his  Sunday  coat.  His 
mother  would  not  have  them  removed,  but  kept  them 
there,  with  frequent  brushings,  to  guard  against  dust 
and  moths. 

Always  when  Charlotte  entered  this  small  long 
room,  which  was  full  of  wavering  lines  from  its  un 
even  floor  and  walls  and  ceiling  and  the  long  ara 
besques  on  its  old  blue-and-wlnte  paper,  whose  green 
paper  curtains  with  fringed  white  dimity  ones  droop 
ing  over  them  were  always  drawn,  and  in  summer 
time  .when  the  windows  were  open  undulated  in  the 
wind,  she  had  the  sense  of  a  presence,  dim,  but  as  pos 
itive  as  the  visions  she  had  used  to  have  of  faces  in 
the  wandering  design  of  the  old  wall-paper  when  she 


73 


had  studied  it  in  her  childhood.  Ever  since  her 
brother's  death  she  had  had  this  sense  of  his  pres 
ence  in  his  room  ;  now  she  thought  no  more  of  it  than 
of  any  familiar  figure.  All  the  grief  at  his  death  had 
vanished,  but  she  never  entered  his  old  room  that 
the  thought  of  him  did  not  rise  up  before  her  and 
stay  with  her  while  she  remained. 

Now,  when  she  opened  the  door,  and  the  opposite 
green  and  white  curtains  flew  out  in  the  draught  tow 
ards  her,  they  were  no  more  evident  than  this  pres 
ence  to  which  she  now  gave  no  thought,  and  pushed 
by  her  brother's  memory  without  a  glance. 

Rose  followed  her  to  the  bed.  A  white  linen  sheet 
was  laid  over  the  chintz  counterpane.  Charlotte  lifted 
the  sheet. 

"  I  took  the  last  stitch  on  it  Wednesday  night,"  she 
said,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"Didn't  he  come  that  night?" 

"  I  finished  it  before  he  came." 

"Did  he  see  it?" 

Charlotte  nodded.  The  two  girls  stood  looking 
solemnly  at  the  silk  dress. 

"  You  can't  see  it  here  ;  it's  too  dark,"  said  Char 
lotte,  and  she  rolled  up  a  window  curtain. 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  better,"  said  Rose,  in  a  whisper. 
"  It's  beautiful,  Charlotte." 

The  dress  was  spread  widely  over  the  bed  in  crisp 
folds.  It  was  purple,  plaided  vaguely  with  cloudy 
lines  of  white  and  delicate  rose-color.  Over  it  lay  a  sil 
very  lustre  that  was  the  very  light  of  the  silken  fabric. 


74 


Rose  felt  it  reverently.  "  How  thick  it  is !"  said 
she. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  good  piece,"  Charlotte  replied. 

"  You  thought  you'd  have  purple  ?" 

»  Yes  ;  he  liked  it." 

"  Well,  it's  pretty,  and  it's  becoming  to  you." 

Charlotte  took  up  the  skirt,  and  slipped  it,  loud 
with  silken  whispers,  over  her  head.  It  swept  out 
around  her  in  a  great  circle;  she  looked  like  a  gor 
geous  inverted  bell-flower. 

"  It's  beautiful,"  Rose  said. 

Charlotte's  face,  gazing  downward  at  the  silken 
breadths,  had  quite  its  natural  expression.  It  was 
as  if  her  mind  in  spite  of  herself  would  stop  at  old 
doors. 

"  Try  on  the  waist,"  pleaded  Rose. 

Charlotte  slipped  off  her  calico  waist,  and  thrust 
her  firm  white  arms  into  the  flaring  silken  sleeves  of 
the  wedding-gown.  Her  neck  arose  from  it  with  a 
grand  curve.  She  stood  before  the  glass  and  strained 
the  buttons  together,  frowning  importantly. 

"  It  fits  you  like  a  glove,"  Rose  murmured,  admir 
ingly,  smoothing  Charlotte's  glossy  back. 

"  I've  got  a  spencer-cape  to  wear  over  my  neck  to 
meeting,"  Charlotte  said,  and  she  opened  the  upper 
most  drawer  in  the  chest  and  took  out  a  worked 
muslin  cape,  and  adjusted  it  carefully  over  her  shoul 
ders,  pinning  it  across  her  bosom  with  a  little  brooch 
of  her  brother's  hair  in  a  rim  of  gold. 

"  It's  elegant,"  said  Rose. 


"  I'll  show  you  my  bonnet,"  said  Charlotte.*  She 
went  into  a  closet  and  emerged  with  a  great  green 
bandbox. 

Rose  bent  over,  watching  her  breathlessly  as  she 
opened  it.  "  Oh  !"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Charlotte  !" 

Charlotte  held  up  the  bonnet  of  fine  Dunstable 
straw,  flaring  in  front,  and  trimmed  under  the  brim 
with  a  delicate  lace  ruche  and  a  wreath  of  feathery 
white  flowers.  Bows  of  white  gauze  ribbon  stood  up 
from  it  stiffly.  Long  ribbon  strings  floated  back  over 
her  arm  as  she  held  it  up. 

"  Try  it  on,"  said  Rose. 

Charlotte  stepped  before  the  glass  and  adjusted  the 
bonnet  to  her  head.  She  tied  the  strings  carefully 
under  her  chin  in  a  great  square  bow ;  then  she  turned 
towards  Rose.  The  fine  white  wreath  under  the 
brim  encircled  her  face  like  a  nimbus ;  she  looked 
as  she  might  have  done  sitting  a  bride  in  the  meet 
ing-house. 

"  It's  beautiful,"  Rose  said,  smiling,  with  grave 
eyes.  "  You  look  real  handsome  in  it,  Charlotte." 
Charlotte  stood  motionless  a  moment,  with  Rose 
surveying  her. 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,"  Rose  cried  out,  suddenly,  "  I 
don't  believe  but  what  you'll  have  him,  after  all!" 
Rose's  eyes  were  sharp  upon  Charlotte's  face.  It 
was  as  if  the  bridal  robes,  which  were  so  evident,  be 
came  suddenly  proofs  of  something  tangible  and  real, 
like  a  garment  left  by  a  ghost.  Rose  felt  a  sudden 
conviction  that  the  quarrel  was  but  a  temporary  thing; 


76 


that  Charlotte  would  marry  Barney,  and  that  she 
knew  it. 

A  change  came  over  Charlotte's  face.  She  began 
untying  the  bonnet  strings. 

"  Sha'n't  you  ?"  repeated  Rose,  breathlessly. 

«  No,  I  sha'n't." 

Charlotte  took  the  bonnet  off  and  smoothed  the 
creases  carefully  out  of  the  strings. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  Rose  cried  out,  "  I'd  feel  like  tear 
ing  that  bonnet  to  pieces !" 

Charlotte  replaced  it  in  the  bandbox,  and  began 
unfastening  her  dress. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  bear  the  sight  of  them. 
I  don't  believe  I  could  bear  them  in  the  house !" 
Rose  cried  out  again.  "  I  would  put  that  dress  in 
the  rag-bag  if  it  was  mine !"  Her  cheeks  burned 
and  her  eyes  were  quite  fierce  upon  the  dress  as  Char 
lotte  slipped  it  off  and  it  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  rustling 
heap  around  her. 

"  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  losing  everything  you 
have  ever  had  because  you  haven't  got  anything 
now,"  Charlotte  returned,  in  a  stern  voice.  She  laid 
the  shining  silk  gown  carefully  on  the  bed,  and  put 
on  her  cotton  one  again.  Her  face  was  quite  steady. 

Rose  watched  her  with  the  same  sharp  question  in 
her  eyes.  "You  know  you  and  Barney  will  make  it 
up,"  she  said,  at  length. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  returned  Charlotte.  "  Suppose  we 
go  down-stairs  now.  I've  got  some  work  I  ought  to 
do." 


77 


Charlotte  pulled  down  the  green  paper  shades  of 
the  windows,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  Rose  fol 
lowed.  Charlotte  turned  to  go  down-stairs,  but  Rose 
caught  her  arm. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  she*  "  Look  here.  Char 
lotte." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Charlotte,"  said  Rose  again  ;  then  she  stopped. 

Charlotte  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Rose's  eyes 
met  hers,  and  her  face  had  a  noble  expression. 

"  You  write  a  note  to  him,  and  I'll  carry  it,"  said 
Rose.  "  I'll  go  down  in  the  field  where  he  is,  on  my 
way  home." 

Tears  sprang  into  Charlotte's  eyes.  "  You're  real 
good,  Rose,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  can't." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  ?" 

"  No ;  I  can't.    Don't  let's  talk  any  more. about  it." 

Charlotte  pushed  past  Rose's  detaining  hand,  and 
the  girls  went  down -stairs.  Mrs.  Barnard  looked 
around  dejectedly  at  them  as  they  entered  the  kitchen. 
Her  eyes  were  red,  and  her  mouth  drooping ;  she  was 
clearing  the  debris  of  the  pies  from  the  table ;  there 
was  a  smell  of  baking,  but  Cephas  had  gone  out. 
She  tried  to  smile  at  Rose.  "  Are  you  goin'  now  ?" 
said  she. 

"  Yes ;  I've  got  to.  I've  got  to  sew  on  my  muslin 
dress.  When  are  you  coming  over,  Aunt  Sarah  ? 
You  haven't  been  over  to  our  house  for  an  age." 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  never  go  anywhere  !"  cried  Sarah 
Barnard,  with  sudden  desperation.  "  I'm  discour- 


78 


aged."    She  sank  in  a  chair,  and  flung  her  apron  over 
her  face. 

"  Don't,  mother,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  sobbed  her  mother.  "  You're 
young  and  you've  got  more  strength  to  bear  it,  but 
mine's  all  gone.  I  feel  worse  about  you  than  if  it  was 
myself,  an'  there's  so  much  to  put  up  with  besides. 
I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  put  up  with  things  much 
longer,  nohow." 

"  Uncle  Cephas  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself !" 
Rose  cried  out. 

Sarah  stood  up.  "  Well,  I  don't  s'pose  I  have  so 
much  to  put  up  with  as  some  folks,"  she  said,  catch 
ing  her  breath  as  if  it  were  her  dignity.  "  Your 
Uncle  Cephas  means  well.  It  did  seem  as  if  them 
sorrel  pies  were  the  last  straw,  but  I  hadn't  ought  to 
have  minded  it." 

"  You  haven't  got  to  eat  sorrel  pies,  have  you  ?" 
Rose  asked,  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  they'll  be  any  worse  than  some 
other  things  we  eat,"  Sarah  answered,  scraping  the 
pie -board  again. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can." 

"  I  guess  they  won't  hurt  us  any,"  Sarah  said, 
shortly,  and  Rose  looked  abashed. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  she. 

As  she  went  out,  she  looked  hesitatingly  at  Char 
lotte.  "  Hadn't  you  better  ?"  she  whispered.  Char 
lotte  shook  her  head,  and  Rose  went  out  into  the 
spring  sunlight.  She  bent  her  head  as  she  went 


79 


down  the  road  before  the  sweet  gusts  of  south  wind ; 
the  white  apple-trees  seemed  to  sing,  for  she  could 
not  see  the  birds  in  them. 

Rose's  face  between  the  green  sides  of  her  bon 
net  had  in  it  all  the  quickened  bloom  of  youth  in 
spring;  her  eyes  had  all  the  blue  surprise  of  violets; 
she  panted  softly  between  red  swelling  lips  as  she 
walked ;  pulses  beat  in  her  crimson  cheeks.  Her 
slender  figure  yielded  to  the  wind  as  to  a  lover.  She 
passed  Barney  Thayer's  new  house ;  then  she  came 
opposite  the  field  where  he  was  at  work  ploughing, 
driving  a  white  horse,  stooping  to  his  work  in  his 
blue  frock. 

Rose  stood  still  and  looked  at  him  ;  then  she  walked 
on  a  little  way  ;  then  she  paused  again.  Barney  never 
looked  around  at  her.  There  was  the  width  of  a  field 
between  them. 

Finally  Rose  went  through  the  open  bars  into  the 
first  field.  She  crossed  it  slowly,  holding  up  her 
skirts  where  there  was  a  wet  gleam  through  darker 
grass,  and  getting  a  little  nosegay  of  violets  with  a 
busy  air,  as  if  that  were  what  she  had  come  for.  She 
passed  through  the  other  bars  into  the  second  field, 
and  Barney  was  only  a  little  way  from  her.  He  did 
not  glance  at  her  then.  He  was  ploughing  with  the 
look  that  Cadmus  might  have  worn  preparing  the 
ground  for  the  dragon's  teeth. 

Rose  held  up  her  skirts,  and  went  along  the  fur 
rows  behind  him.  "  Hullo,  Barney,"  she  said,  in  a 
trembling  voice. 


80 


14  Hullo,"  lie  returned,  without  looking  around,  and 
he  kept  on,  with  Rose  following, 

"  Barney,"  said  she,  timidly. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Barney,  half  turning,  with  a  slight 
show  of  courtesy. 

"  Do  you  know  if  Rebecca  is  at  home  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  she  is  or  not." 

Barney  held  stubbornly  to  his  rocking  plough,  and 
Rose  followed. 

"  Barney,"  said  she,  again. 

"  Well  r 

"  Stop  a  minute,  and  look  round  here." 

"  I  can't  stop  to  talk." 

"  Yes,  you  can  ;  just  a  minute.    Look  round  here." 

Barney  stopped,  and  turned  a  stern,  miserable  face 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  I've  been  up  to  Charlotte's,"  Rose  said. 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  is  to  me." 

"  Barney  Thayer,  ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?" 

"  I  can't  stop  to  talk." 

"  Yes,  you  can.  Look  here.  Charlotte  feels  aw 
fully." 

Barney  stood  with  his  back  to  Rose ;  his  very 
shoulders  had  a  dogged  look. 

"  Barney,  why  don't  you  make  up  with  her  ?" 

Barney  stood  still. 

"Barney,  she  feels  awfully  because  you  didn't 
come  back  when  she  called  you  last  night." 

Barney  made  no  reply.  He  and  the  white  horse 
stood  like  statues. 


"Barney,  why  don't  you  make  up  with  her?  I 
wish  you  would."  Rose's  voice  was  full  of  tender 
inflections  ;  it  might  have  been  that  of  an  angel  peace 
making. 

Barney  turned  around  between  the  handles  of  the 
plough,  and  looked  at  her  steadily.  "  You  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  Rose,"  he  said. 

Rose  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  her  own  was  full 
of  fine  pleading.  "Oh,  Barney,"  she  said,  "poor 
Charlotte  does  feel  so  bad  !  I  know  that  anyhow." 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  am  situated.     I  can't — " 

"  Do  go  and  see  her,  Barney." 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  going  into  Cephas  Barnard's 
house  after  he's  ordered  me  out  2" 

"  Go  up  the  road  a  little  way,  and  she'll  come  and 
meet  you.  I'll  run  ahead  and  tell  her." 

Barney  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't ;  you  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  Rose."  He  looked  into 
Rose's  eyes.  "  You're  real  good,  Rose,"  he  said,  as 
if  with  a  sudden  recognition  of  her  presence. 

Rose  blushed  softly,  a  new  look  came  into  her 
eyes,  she  smiled  up  at  him,  and  her  face  was  all  pink 
and  sweet  and  fully  set  towards  him,  like  a  rose  for 
which  he  was  a  sun. 

"  No,  I  ain't  good,"  she  whispered. 

"  Yes,  you  are ;  but  I  can't.  You  don't  know 
anything  about  it."  He  swung  about  and  grasped 
his  plough-handles  again. 

"Barney,  do  stop  a  minute,"  Rose  pleaded. 

"  I  can't  stop  any  longer ;  there's  no  use  talking," 

6 


82 


Barney  said;  and  he  went  on  remorselessly  through 
the  opening  furrow.  Just  before  he  turned  the  cor 
ner  Rose  made  a  little  run  forward  and  caught  his 
arm. 

"You  don't  think  I've  done  anything  out  of  the 
way  speaking  to  you  about  it,  do  you,  Barney  ?"  she 
said,  and  she  was  half  crying. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  think  you  had;  I 
suppose  you  meant  all  right,"  Barney  said.  He 
pulled  his  arm  away  softly,  and  jerked  the  right  rein 
to  turn  the  horse.  "  G'lang !"  he  cried  out,  and  strode 
forward  with  a  conclusive  air. 

Rose  stood  looking  after  him  a  minute ;  then  she 
struck  off  across  the  field.  Her  knees  trembled  as 
she  stepped  over  the  soft  plough-ridges. 

When  she  was  out  on  the  road  again  she  went 
along  quickly  until  she  came  to  the  Thayer  house. 
She  was  going  past  that  when  she  heard  some  one 
calling  her  name,  and  turned  to  see  who  it  was. 

Rebecca  Thayer  came  hurrying  out  of  the  yard 
with  a  basket  on  her  arm.  "  Wait  a  minute,"  she 
called,  "  and  Til  go  along  with  you." 


CHAPTER  V 

REBECCA,  walking  beside  Rose,  looked  like  a  wom 
an  of  another  race.  She  was  much  taller,  and  her 
full,  luxuriant  young  figure  looked  tropical  beside 
Rose's  slender  one.  Her  body  undulated  as  she 
walked,  but  Rose  moved  only  with  forward  flings 
of  delicate  limbs. 

"  I've  got  to  carry  these  eggs  down  to  the  store 
and  get  some  sugar,"  said  Rebecca. 

Rose  assented,  absently.  She  was  full  of  the 
thought  of  her  talk  with  Barney. 

"  It's  a  pleasant  day,  ain't  it  ?"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Yes,  it's  real  pleasant.  Say,  Rebecca,  I'm  awful 
afraid  I  made  Barney  mad  just  now." 

"  Why,  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  stopped  in  the  field  when  I  was  going  by.  I'd 
been  up  to  see  Charlotte,  and  I  said  something  about 
it  to  him." 

"  How  much  do  you  know  about  it  ?"  Rebecca 
asked,  abruptly. 

"  Charlotte  told  me  this  mornin',  and  last  night 
when  I  was  going  to  her  house  across  lots  I  saw  Bar 
ney  going,  and  heard  her  calling  him  back.  I  thought 
I'd  see  if  I  couldn't  coax  him  to  make  up  with  her, 
but  I  couldn't." 


84 


"  Oh,  he'll  come  round,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Then  you  think  it  '11  be  made  up  ?"  Rose  asked, 
quickly. 

"  Of  course  it  will.  We're  having  a  terrible  time 
about  poor  Barney.  He  didn't  come  home  last 
night,  and  it's  much  as  ever  he's  spoken  this  morn 
ing.  He  wouldn't  eat  any  breakfast.  He  just  went 
into  his  room,  and  put  on  his  other  clothes,  and 
then  went  out  in  the  field  to  work.  He  wouldn't 
tell  mother  anything  about  it.  I  never  saw  her  so 
worked  up.  She's  terribly  afraid  he's  done  some 
thing  wrong." 

"  He  hasn't  done  anything  wrong,"  returned  Rose. 
"  I  think  your  mother  is  terrible  hard  on  him.  It's 
Uncle  Cephas  ;  he  just  picked  the  quarrel.  He  hasn't 
never  more'n  half  liked  Barney.  So  you  think  Bar 
ney  will  make  up  with  Charlotte,  and  they'll  get 
married,  after  all  ?" 

"  Of  course  they  will,"  Rebecca  replied,  promptly. 
"  I  guess  they  won't  be  such  fools  as  not  to  for  such 
a  silly  reason  as  that,  when  Barney's  got  his  house 
'most  done,  and  Charlotte  has  got  all  her  wedding- 
clothes  ready." 

"  Ain't  Barney  terrible  set  ?" 

"  He's  set  enough,  but  I  guess  you'll  find  he  won't 
be  this  time." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  he  won't  be,"  Rose  said, 
and  she  walked  along  silently,  her  face  sober  in  the 
depths  of  her  bonnet. 

They  came  to  Richard  Alger's  house  on  the  right- 


85 


hand  side  of  the  road,  and  Rebecca  looked  reflective 
ly  at  the  white  cottage  with  its  steep  peak  of  Gothic 
roof  set  upon  a  ploughed  hill.  "  It's  queer  how  he's 
been  going  with  your  aunt  Sylvy  all  these  years," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  'tis,"  assented  Rose,  and  she  too  glanced  up 
at  the  house.  As  they  looked,  a  man  came  around 
the  corner  with  a  basket.  He  was  about  to  plant 
potatoes  in  his  hilly  yard. 

"  There  he  is  now,"  said  Rose. 

They  watched  Richard  Alger  coining  towards 
them,  past  a  great  tree  whose  new  leaves  were  as 
red  as  flowers. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  the  reason  is  ?"  Rebecca 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he's  got  used  to  living 
this  way." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  they'd  be  very  happy,"  Rebecca 
said ;  and  she  blushed,  and  her  voice  had  a  shame 
faced  tone. 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  makes  so  much  difference 
when  folks  get  older,"  Rose  returned. 

"  Maybe  it  don't.     Rose." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  store  with  me." 

Rose  laughed.     "  What  for  ?" 

"  Nothing.     Only  I  wish  you  would." 

"  You  afraid  of  William  ?"  Rose  peered  around 
into  Rebecca's  bonnet. 

Rebecca  blushed   until  tears   came   to  her  eyes. 


86 


"  I'd  like  to  know  what  I'd  be  afraid  of  William  Ber 
ry  for,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  me  to  go  into  the  store 
with  you  for?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  You're  a  great  ninny,  Rebecca  Thayer,"  Rose 
said,  laughing,  "  but  I'll  go  if  you  want  me  to.  I 
know  William  won't  like  it.  You  run  away  from 
him  the  whole  time.  There  isn't  another  girl  in 
Pembroke  treats  him  as  badly  as  you  do."  . 

"  I  don't  treat  him  badly." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  And  I  don't  believe  but  what  you 
like  him,  Rebecca  Thayer ;  you  wouldn't  act  so  silly 
if  you  didn't." 

Rebecca  was  silent.  Rose  peered  around  in  her 
face  again.  "  I  was  only  joking.  I  think  a  sight 
more  of  you  for  not  running  after  him,  and  so  does 
William.  You  haven't  any  idea  how  some  of  the  girls 
act  chasing  to  the  store.  Mother  and  I  have  counted 
'em  some  days,  and  then  we  plague  William  about  it, 
but  he  won't  own  up  they  come  to  see  him.  He  acts 
more  ashamed  of  it  than  the  girls  do." 

"That's  one  thing  I  never  would  do  —  run  after 
any  fellow,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  I  wouldn't  either." 

Then  the  two  girls  had  reached  the  tavern  and  the 
store.  Rose's  father,  Silas  Berry,  had  kept  the  tav 
ern,  but  now  it  was  closed,  except  to  occasional  spe 
cial  guests.  He  had  gained  a  competency,  and  his 
wife  Hannah  had  rebelled  against  further  toil.  Then, 


87 


too,  the  railroad  had  been  built  through  East  Pem 
broke  instead  of  Pembroke,  the  old  stage  line  had  be 
come  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  the  tavern  was  scantily 
patronized.  Still,  Silas  Berry  had  given  it  up  with 
great  reluctance ;  he  cherished  a  grudge  against  his 
wife  because  she  had  insisted  upon  it,  and  would  never 
admit  that  business  policy  had  aught  to  do  with  it. 

The  store  adjoining  the  tavern,  which  he  had 
owned  for  years,  he  still  retained,  but  his  son  Will 
iam  had  charge  of  it.  Silas  Berry  was  growing  old, 
and  the  year  before  had  had  a  slight  shock  of  paraly 
sis,  which  had  made  him  halt  and  feeble,  although 
his  mind  was  as  clear  as  ever.  However,  although 
he  took  no  active  part  in  the  duties  of  the  store,  he 
was  still  there,  and  sharply  watchful  for  his  interests, 
the  greater  part  of  every  day. 

The  two  girls  went  up  the  steps  to  the  store  piaz 
za.  Rose  stepped  forward  and  looked  in  the  door. 
"  Father's  in  there,  and  Tommy  Ray,"  she  whispered. 
"  You  needn't  be  afraid  to  go  in."  But  she  entered 
as  she  spoke,  and  Rebecca  followed  her. 

There  was  one  customer  in  the  great  country  store, 
a  stout  old  man,  on  the  grocery  side.  His  broad  red 
face  turned  towards  them  a  second,  then  squinted 
again  at  some  packages  on  the  counter.  He  was 
haggling  for  garden  seeds.  William  Berry,  who  was 
waiting  upon  him,  did  not  apparently  look  at  his 
sister  and  Rebecca  Thayer,  but  Rebecca  had  entered 
his  heart  as  well  as  the  store,  and  he  saw  her  face 
deep  in  his  own  consciousness. 


88 


Tommy  Ray,  the  great  white  -  headed  boy  who 
helped  William  in  the  store,  shuffled  along  behind 
the  counter  indeterminately,  but  the  girls  did  not 
seem  to  see  him.  Rose  was  talking  fast  to  Rebecca. 
He  lounged  back  against  the  shelves,  stared  out  the 
door,  and  whistled. 

Out  of  the  obscurity  in  the  back  of  the  store  an 
old  man's  narrow  bristling  face  peered,  watchful  as  a 
cat,  his  body  hunched  up  in  a  round  -  backed  arm 
chair. 

"  Mr.  Nims  will  go  in  a  minute,"  Rose  whispered, 
and  presently  the  old  farmer  clamped  past  them  out 
the  door,  counting  his  change  from  one  hand  to  the 
other,  his  lips  moving. 

William  Berry  replaced  the  seed  packages  which 
the  customer  had  rejected  on  the  shelves  as  the  girls 
approached  him. 

"  Rebecca's  got  some  eggs  to  sell,"  Rose  announced. 

William  Berry's  thin,  wide-shouldered  figure  tow 
ered  up  behind  the  counter ;  he  smiled,  and  the 
smile  was  only  a  deepening  of  the  pleasant  intensity 
of  his  beardless  face,  with  its  high  pale  forehead 
and  smooth  crest  of  fair  hair.  The  lines  in  his  face 
scarcely  changed. 

"  How  d'ye  do  ?"  said  he. 

"  How  d'ye  do  ?"  returned  Rebecca,  with  fluttered 
dignity.  Her  face  bloomed  deeply  pink  in  the  green 
tunnel  of  her  sun  -  bonnet,  her  black  eyes  were  as 
soft  and  wary  as  a  baby's,  her  full  red  lips  had  a 
grave,  innocent  expression. 


"  '  REBKCCA'S  GOT  SOME  EGGS  TO  SELL  '" 


"  How  many  dozen  eggs  have  you  got,  Rebecca?" 
Rose  inquired,  peering  into  the  basket. 

"  Two ;  mother  couldn't  spare  any  more  to-day," 
Rebecca  replied,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  How  much  sugar  do  you  give  for  two  dozen 
eggs.,  William  ?"  asked  Rose. 

William  hesitated ;  he  gave  a  scarcely  perceptible 
glance  towards  the  watchful  old  man,  whose  eyes 
seemed  to  gleam  out  of  the  gloom  in  the  back  of  the 
store.  "  Well,  about  two  pounds  and  a  half,"  he  re 
plied,  in  a  low  voice. 

Rebecca  set  her  basket  of  eggs  on  the  counter. 

"  How  many  pound  did  you  tell  her,  William  ?" 
called  the  old  man's  hoarse  voice. 

William  compressed  his  lips.  "  About  two  and  a 
half,  father." 

"  How  many  ?" 

"  Two  and  a  half." 

"  How  many  dozen  of  eggs  ?" 

"Two." 

"  You  ain't  offerin'  of  her  two  pound  of  sugar  for 
two  dozen  eggs  ?" 

"  I  said  two  pounds  and  a  half  of  sugar,  father,1' 
said  William.  He  began  counting  the  eggs. 

"Be  you  gone  crazy  ?" 

"  Never  mind,"  whispered  Rebecca.  "  That's  too 
much  sugar  for  the  eggs.  Mother  didn't  expect  so 
much.  Don't  say  any  more  about  it,  William."  Her 
face  was  quite  steady  and  self-possessed  now,  as  she 
looked  at  AVilliam,  frowning  heavily  over  the  eggs. 


90 


"  Give  Rebecca  two  pounds  of  sugar  for  the  eggs, 
father,  and  call  it  square,"  Rose  called  out. 

Silas  Berry  pulled  himself  up  a  joint  at  a  time ; 
then  he  came  forward  at  a  stiff  halt,  his  face  pointing 
out  in  advance  of  his  body.  He  entered  at  the  gap 
in  the  counter,  and  pressed  close  to  his  son's  side. 
Then  he  looked  sharply  across  at  Rebecca.  "  Sugar 
is  fourteen  cents  a  pound  now,"  said  he,  "  an'  eggs 
ain't  fetchin'  more'n  ten  cents  a  dozen.  You  tell 
your  mother." 

"  Father,  I  told  her  I'd  give  her  two  and  a  half 
pounds  for  two  dozen,"  said  William ;  he  was  quite 
pale.  He  began  counting  the  eggs  over  again,  and 
his  hands  trembled. 

u  I'll  take  just  what  you're  willing  to  give,"  Re 
becca  said  to  Silas. 

"  Sugar  is  fourteen  cents  a  pound,  an'  eggs  is  fetch- 
in'  ten  cents  a  dozen,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  you  can 
have  a  pound  and  a  half  of  sugar  for  them  eggs  if 
you  can  give  me  a  cent  to  boot." 

Rebecca  colored.  "  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  got  a  cent 
with  me,"  said  she  ;  "  I  didn't  fetch  my  purse.  You'll 
have  to  give  me  a  cent's  worth  less  sugar,  Mr. 
Berry." 

"It's  kinder  hard  to  calkilate  so  close  as  that," 
returned  Silas,  gravely ;  "  you  had  better  tell  your 
mother  about  it,  an'  you  come  back  with  the  cent 
by-an'-by." 

"  Why,  father  !"  cried  Rose. 

William  shouldered  his  father  aside  with  a  sud- 


91 


den  motion.  "  I'm  tending  to  this,  father,"  he  said, 
in  a  stern  whisper  ;  "  you  leave  it  alone." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  stari'  by  an'  see  you  givin'  twice 
as  much  for  eggs  as  they're  worth  'cause  it's  a  gal 
you're  tradin'  with.  That  wa'n't  never  my  way  of 
doin'  business,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  it  done  in 
my  store.  I  shouldn't  have  laid  up  a  cent  if  I'd 
managed  any  such  ways,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  see  my 
hard  earnin's  wasted  by  you.  You  give  her  a  pound 
and  a  half  of  sugar  for  them  eggs  and  a  cent  to 
boot." 

"  You  sha'n't  lose  anything  by  it,  father,"  said 
William,  fiercely.  "  You  leave  me  alone." 

The  sugar-barrel  stood  quite  near.  William  strode 
over  to  it,  and  plunged  in  the  great  scoop  with  a 
grating  noise.  He  heaped  it  recklessly  on  some 
paper,  and  laid  it  on  the  steelyards. 

"Don't  give  me  more'n  a  pound  and  a  half,"  Re 
becca  said,  softly. 

"  Keep  still,"  Rose  whispered  in  her  ear. 

Silas  pushed  forward,  and  bent  over  the  steel 
yards.  "You've  weighed  out  nigh  three,"  he  began. 
Then  his  son's  face  suddenly  confronted  his,  and  he 
stopped  talking  and  stood  back. 

Almost  involuntarily  at  times  Silas  Berry  yielded 
to  the  combination  of  mental  and  superior  physical 
force  in  his  son.  While  his  own  mind  had  lost  noth 
ing  of  its  vigor,  his  bodily  weakness  made  him  dis 
trustful  of  it  sometimes,  when  his  son  towered  over 
him  in  what  seemed  the  might  of  his  own  lost 


strength  and  youth,  brandishing  his  own  old  weap 
ons. 

William  tied  up  the  sugar  neatly ;  then  he  took 
the  eggs  from  Rebecca's  basket,  and  put  the  parcel 
in  their  place.  Silas  began  lifting  the  eggs  from  the 
box  in  which  William  had  put  them,  and  counted 
them  eagerly. 

"  There  ain't  but  twenty  -  three  eggs  here,"  he 
called  out,  as  Rebecca  and  Rose  turned  away,  and  Will 
iam  was  edging  after  them  from  behind  the  counter. 

"  I  thought  there  were  two  dozen,"  Rebecca  re 
sponded,  in  a  distressed  voice. 

"  Of  course  there  are  two  dozen,"  said  Rose, 
promptly.  "  You  'ain't  counted  'em  right,  father. 
Go  along,  Rebecca ;  it's  all  right." 

"  I  tell  ye  it  ain't,"  said  Silas.  "  There  ain't  but 
twenty  -  three.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  payin'  twice 
what  they're  wuth  for  eggs,  without  havin'  of  'em 
come  short." 

"  I  tell  you  I  counted  'em  twice  over,  and  they're 
all  right.  You  keep  still,  father,"  said  William's 
voice  at  his  ear,  in  a  fierce  whisper,  and  Silas  sub 
sided  into  sullen  mutterings. 

William  had  meditated  following  Rebecca  to  the 
door;  he  had  even  meditated  going  farther ;  but  now 
*  he  stood  back  behind  the  counter,  and  began  pack 
ing  up  some  boxes  with  a  busy  air. 

"  Ain't  you  going  a  piece  with  Rebecca,  and  carry 
her  basket,  William  ?"  Rose  called  back,  when  the 
two  girls  reached  the  door. 


93 


Rebecca  clutched  her  arm.  "  Oh,  don't,"  she 
gasped,  and  Rose  giggled. 

"  Ain't  you,  William  ?"  she  said  again. 

Rebecca  hurried  out  the  door,  but  she  heard  Will 
iam  reply  coldly  that  he  couldn't,  he  was  too  busy. 
She  was  half  crying  when  Rose  caught  up  with 
her. 

"  William  wanted  to  go  bad  enough,  but  he  was 
too  upset  by  what  father  said.  You  mustn't  mind 
father,"  Rose  said,  peering  around  into  Rebecca's 
bonnet.  "  Why,  Rebecca,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  I  didn't  go  into  that  store  a  step  to  see  William 
Berry.  You  know  I  didn't,"  Rebecca  cried  out,  with 
sudden  passion.  Her  voice  was  hoarse  with  tears; 
her  face  was  all  hot  and  quivering  with  shame  and 
anger. 

"  Why,  of  course  you  didn't,"  Rose  returned,  in  a 
bewildered  way.  "  Who  said  you  did,  Rebecca  ?" 

"  You  know  I  didn't.  I  hated  to  go  to  the  store 
this  morning.  I  told  mother  I  didn't  want  to,  but 
she  didn't  have  a  mite  of  sugar  in  the  house,  and 
there  wasn't  anybody  else  to  send.  Ephraim  ain't 
very  well,  and  Doctor  Whiting  says  he  ought  not 
to  walk  very  far.  I  had  to  come,  but  I  didn't  come 
to  see  AVilliam  Berry,  and  nobody  has  any  call  to 
think  I  did." 

"  I  don't  know  who  said  you  did.  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  Rebecca." 

"  You  acted  as  if  you  thought  so.  I  don't  want 
William  Berry  seeing  me  home  in  broad  daylight, 


94 


when  I've  been  to  the  store  to  trade,  and  you  needn't 
think  that's  what  I  came  for,  and  he  needn't." 

"  Good  land,  Rebecca  Thayer,  he  didn't,  and  I  was 
just  in  fun.  He'd  have  come  with  you,  but  he  was 
so  mad  at  what  father  said  that  he  backed  out.  Will 
iam's  just  about  as  easy  upset  as  you  are.  I  didn't 
mean  any  harm.  Say,  Rebecca,  come  into  the  house 
a  little  while,  can't  you  ?  I  don't  believe  your  moth 
er  is  in  any  great  hurry  for  the  sugar."  Rose  took 
hold  of  Rebecca's  arm,  but  Rebecca  jerked  herself 
away  with  a  sob,  and  went  down  the  road  almost  on 
a  run. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you're  touchy  enough,  Rebecca 
Thayer,"  Rose  called  out,  as  she  stood  looking  after 
her.  "  Folks  will  begin  to  think  you  did  come  to 
see  William  if  you  make  such  a  fuss  when  nobody 
accuses  you  of  it,  if  you  don't  look  out." 

Rebecca  hastened  trembling  down  the  road.  She 
made  no  reply,  but  she  knew  that  Rose  was  quite 
right,  and  that  she  had  attacked  her  with  futile  re 
proaches  in  order  to  save  herself  from  shame  in  her 
own  eyes.  Rebecca  knew  quite  well  that  in  spite  of 
her  hesitation  and  remonstrances,  in  spite  of  her 
maiden  shrinking  on  the  threshold  of  the  store,  she 
had  come  to  see  William  Berry.  She  had  been  glad, 
although  she  had  turned  a  hypocritical  face  towards 
her  own  consciousness,  that  Ephraim  was  not  well 
enough  and  she  was  obliged  to  go.  Her  heart  had 
leaped  with  joy  when  Rose  had  proposed  William's 
walking  home  with  her,  but  when  he  refused  she  was 


95 


crushed  with  shame.  "  He  thought  I  came  to  see 
him,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself  as  she  hurried 
along,  and  there  was  no  falsehood  that  she  would 
not  have  sworn  to  to  shield  her  modesty  from  such 
a  thought  on  his  part. 

When  she  got  home  and  entered  the  kitchen,  she 
kept  her  face  turned  away  from  her  mother.  "  Here's 
the  sugar,"  she  said,  and  she  took  it  out  of  the  bas 
ket  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 

"  How  much  did  he  give  you  ?"  asked  Deborah 
Thayer ;  she  was  standing  beside  the  window  beat 
ing  eggs.  Over  in  the  field  she  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Barnabas  now  and  then  between  the  trees  as  he 
passed  with  his  plough. 

"  About  two  pounds." 

"That  was  doin'  pretty  well." 

Rebecca  said  nothing.  She  turned  to  go  out  of 
the  room. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  her  mother  asked,  sharp 
ly.  "  Take  off  your  bonnet.  I  want  you  to-  beat  up 
the  butter  and  sugar ;  this  cake  ought  to  be  in  the 
oven." 

Deborah's  face,  as  she  beat  the  eggs  and  made 
cake,  looked  as  full  of  stern  desperation  as  a  sol 
dier's  on  the  battle-field.  Deborah  never  yielded  to 
any  of  the  vicissitudes  of  life  ;  she  met  them  in  fair 
fight  like  enemies,  and  vanquished  them,  not  with 
trumpet  and  spear,  but  with  daily  duties.  It  was  a 
village  story  how  Deborah  Thayer  cleaned  all  the 
windows  in  the  house  one  afternoon  when  her  first 


96 


child  had  died  in  the  morning.  To-day  she  was  in 
a  tumult  of  wrath  and  misery  over  her  son  ;  her 
mouth  was  so  full  of  the  gall  of  bitterness  that  no 
sweet  on  earth  could  overcome  it ;  but  she  made 
sweet  cake. 

Rebecca  took  off  her  sun-bonnet  and  hung  it  on  a 
peg;  she  got  a  box  from  the  pantry,  and  emptied 
the  sugar  into  it,  still  keeping  her  face  turned  away 
as  best  she  could  from  her  mother's  eyes. 

Deborah  looked  approvingly  at  the  sugar.  "  It's 
nigher  three  pounds  than  anything  else.  I  guess  you 
were  kind  of  favored,  Rebecca.  Did  William  wait 
on  you  ?" 

«  Yes,  he  did." 

"  I  guess  you  were  kind  of  favored,"  Deborah  re 
peated,  and  a  half -smile  came  over  her  grim  face. 

Rebecca  said  nothing.  She  got  some  butter,  and 
fell  to  work  with  a  wooden  spoon,  creaming  the  but 
ter  and  sugar  in  a  brown  wooden  bowl  with  swift 
turns  of  her  strong  white  wrist.  Ephraim  watched 
her  sharply ;  he  sat  by  a  window  stoning  raisins. 
His  mother  had  forbidden  him  to  eat  any,  as  she 
thought  them  injurious  to  him  ;  but  he  carefully 
calculated  his  chances,  and  deposited  many  in  his 
mouth  when  she  watched  Barney  ;  but  his  jaws  were 
always  gravely  set  when  she  turned  his  way. 

Ephraim's  face  had  a  curious  bluish  cast,  as  if  his 
blood  were  the  color  of  the  juice  of  a  grape.  His 
chest  heaved  shortly  and  heavily.  The  village  doctor 
had  told  his  mother  that  he  had  heart-disease,  which 


97 


might  prove  fatal,  although  there  was  a  chance  of  his 
outgrowing  it,  and  Deborah  had  set  her  face  against 
that. 

Ephraim's  face,  in  spite  of  its  sickly  hue,  had  a 
perfect  healthiness  and  naturalness  of  expression, 
which  insensibly  gave  confidence  to  his  friends,  al 
though  it  aroused  their  irritation.  A  spirit  of  boyish 
rebellion  and  importance  looked  out  of  Ephraim's 
black  eyes ;  his  mouth  was  demure  with  mischief,  his 
gawky  figure  perpetually  uneasy  and  twisting,  as  if 
to  find  entrance  into  small  forbidden  places.  There 
was  something  in  Ephraim's  face,  when  she  looked 
suddenly  at  him,  which  continually  led  his  mother 
to  infer  that  he  had  been  transgressing.  "  What 
have  you  been  doin',  Ephraim  ?"  she  would  call  out, 
sharply,  many  a  time,  with  no  just  grounds  for  sus 
picion,  and  be  utterly  routed  by  Ephraim's  innocent, 
wondering  grin  in  response. 

The  boy  was  set  about  with  restrictions  which 
made  his  life  miserable,  but  the  labor  of  picking 
over  plums  for  a  cake  was  quite  to  his  taste.  He 
dearly  loved  plums,  although  they  were  especially 
prohibited.  He  rolled  one  quietly  under  his  tongue, 
and  watched  Rebecca  with  sharp  eyes.  She  could 
scarcely  keep  her  face  turned  away  from  him  and  her 
mother  too. 

"  Say,  mother,  Rebecca's  been  cryin' !"  Ephraim 
announced,  suddenly. 

Deborah  turned  and  looked  at  Rebecca's  face 
bending  lower  over  the  wooden  bowl ;  her  black 

7 


lashes  rested  on  red  circles,  and  her  lips  were  swol 
len. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you've  been  cryin'  about," 
said  Deborah.  It  was  odd  that  she  did  not  think 
that  Rebecca's  grief  might  be  due  to  the  worry  over 
Barney ;  but  she  did  not  for  a  minute.  She  directly 
attributed  it  to  some  personal  and  strictly  selfish 
consideration  which  should  arouse  her  animosity. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rebecca,  with  sulky  misery. 

"  Yes,  you've  been  cryin'  about  something,  too.  I 
want  to  know  what  'tis." 

"  Nothing.     I  wish  you  wouldn't,  mother." 

"  Did  you  see  William  Berry  over  to  the  store  ?" 

"  I  told  you  I  did  once." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  bite  my  head  off.  Did  he  say 
anything  to  you  ?" 

"lie  weighed  out  the  sugar.  I  know  one  thing: 
I'll  never  set  my  foot  inside  that  store  again  as  long 
as  I  live  !" 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean,  Rebecca  Thay- 
er." 

"  I  ain't  going  to  have  folks  think  I'm  running 
after  William  Berry." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  who  thinks  you  are.  If  it's 
Hannah  Berry,  she  needn't  talk,  after  the  way  her 
daughter  has  chased  over  here.  Mebbe  it's  all  you 
Rose  Berry  has  been  to  see,  but  I've  had  my  doubts. 
What  did  Hannah  Berry  say  to  you  ?" 

"  She  didn't  say  anything.     I  haven't  seen  her." 

"  What  was  it,  then  ?" 


99 


But  Rebecca  would  not  tell  her  mother  what  the 
trouble  had  been  ;  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  re 
veal  how  William  had  been  urged  to  walk  home  with 
her  and  how  coldly  he  had  refused,  and  finally  Deb 
orah,  in  spite  of  baffled  interest,  turned  upon  her. 
"  A\7ell,  I  hope  you  didn't  do  anything  unbecoming," 
said  she. 

"  Mother,  you  know  better." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  didn't." 

"  Mother,  I  won't  stand  being  talked  to  so  !" 

"  I  rather  think  I  shall  talk  to  you  all  I  think  I 
ought  to  for  your  own  good,"  said  Deborah,  with 
fierce  persistency.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  any  daugh 
ter  of  mine  doin'  anything  bold  and  forward,  if  I 
know  it," 

Rebecca  was  weeping  quite  openly  now.  "Mother, 
you  know  you  sent  me  down  to  the  store  yourself ; 
there  wasn't  anybody  else  to  go,"  she  sobbed  out. 

"  Your  goin'  to  the  store  wa'n't  anything.  I  guess 
you  can  go  to  the  store  to  trade  off  some  eggs  for 
sugar  when  I'm  makin'  cake  without  William  Berry 
thinkin'  you're  runnin'  after  him,  or  Hannah  Berry 
thinkin'  so  cither.  But  there  wa'n't  any  need  of 
your  makin'  any  special  talk  with  him,  or  lookin'  as 
if  you  was  tickled  to  death  to  see  him." 

"  I  didn't.  I  wouldn't  go  across  the  room  to  see 
William  Berry.  You  haven't  any  right  to  say  such 
things  to  me,  mother." 

"  I  guess  I've  got  a  right  to  talk  to  my  own  daugh 
ter.  I  should  think  things  had  come  to  a  pretty  pass 


100 


if  I  can't  speak  when  I  see  you  doin'  out  of  the  way. 
I  know  one  thing,  you  won't  go  to  that  store  again. 
I'll  go  myself  next  time.  Have  you  got  that  butter 
an'  sugar  mixed  up  ?" 

"  I  hope  you  will  go,  I'm  sure.  I  don't  want  to," 
returned  Rebecca.  She  had  stopped  crying,  but  her 
face  was  burning ;  she  hit  the  spoon  with  dull  thuds 
against  the  wooden  bowl. 

"  Don't  you  be  saucy.  That's  done  enough  ;  give 
it  here." 

Deborah  finished  the  cake  with  a  master  hand. 
When  she  measured  the  raisins  which  Ephraim  had 
stoned  she  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  him,  but  he  was 
ready  for  it  with  beseechingly  upturned  sickly  face. 
"Can't  I  have  just  one  raisin,  mother?"  he  pleaded. 

*.*  Yes,  you  may,  if  you  'ain't  eat  any  while  you  was 
pickin'  of  'em  over,"  she  answered.  And  he  reached 
over  a  thumb  and  finger  and  selected  a  large  fat 
plum,  which  he  ate  with  ostentatious  relish.  Ephra- 
im's  stomach  oppressed  him,  his  breath  came  harder, 
but  he  had  a  sense  of  triumph  in  his  soul.  This  de 
priving  him  of  the  little  creature  comforts  which  he 
loved,  and  of  the  natural  enjoyments  of  boyhood, 
aroused  in  him  a  blind  spirit  of  revolution  which  he 
felt  virtuous  in  exercising.  Ephraim  was  absolutely 
conscienceless  with  respect  to  all  his  stolen  pleasures. 

Deborah  had  a  cooking -stove.  She  had  a  pro 
gressive  spirit,  and  when  stoves  were  first  introduced 
had  promptly  done  away  with  the  brick  oven,  except 
on  occasions  when  much  baking -room  was  needed. 


101 


After  her  new  stove  was  set  up  in  heir  b'ack-^itchci, 
she  often  alluded  to  Hannah  Berry's  conservative 
principles  with  scorn.  Hannah's  sist-er,  Mrs.  Bar 
nard,  had  told  her  how  a  stove  could  be  set  up  in 
the  tavern  any  minute ;  but  Hannah  despised  new 
notions.  "Hannah  won't  have  one,  nohow,"  said 
Mrs.  Barnard.  "I  dunno  but  I  would,  if  Cephas 
could  afford  it,  and  wa'n't  set  against  it.  It  seems 
to  me  it  might  save  a  sight  of  work." 

"  Some  folks  are  rooted  so  deep  in  old  notions 
that  they  can't  see  their  own  ideas  over  them,"  de 
clared  Deborah.  Often  when  she  cooked  in  her  new 
stove  she  inveighed  against  Hannah  Berry's  foolish 
ness. 

"  If  Hannah  Berry  wants  to  heat  up  a  whole  brick 
oven  and  work  the  whole  forenoon  to  bake  a  loaf  of 
cake,  she  can,"  said  she,  as  she  put  the  pan  of  cake  in 
the  oven.  "  Now,  you  watch  this,  Rebecca  Thayer, 
and  don't  you  let  it  burn,  and  you  get  the  potatoes 
ready  for  dinner." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  mother  ?"  asked  Ephraim. 

"  I'm  just  goin'  to  step  out  a  little  way." 

"  Can't  I  go  too  ?" 

"No;  you  set  still.  You  ain't  fit  to  walk  this 
mornin'.  You  know  what  the  doctor  told  you." 

"  It  won't  hurt  me  any,"  whined  Ephraim.  There 
were  times  when  the  spirit  of  rebellion  in  him  made 
illness  and  even  his  final  demise  flash  before  his  eyes 
like  sweet  overhanging  fruit,  since  they  were  so  stren 
uously  forbidden. 


102 


;  ,-'.Yo;T  s/*t% still,'*  repeated  his  mother.  She  tied  on 
her  own  green  sun-bonnet,  stiffened  with  pasteboard, 
and  went  with  it  rattling  against  her  ears  across  the 
fields  to  the  one  where  her  son  was  ploughing.  The 
grass  was  not  wet,  but  she  held  her  dress  up  high, 
showing  her  thick  shoes  and  her  blue  yarn  stock 
ings,  and  took  long  strides.  Barney  was  guiding 
the  plough  past  her  when  she  came  up. 

"You  stop  a  minute,"  she  said,  authoritatively. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

•"  Whoa!"  said  Barney,  and  pulled  up  the  horse. 
"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said,  gruffly,  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  plough. 

"  You  go  this  minute  and  set  the  men  to  work  on 
your  house  again.  You  leave  the  horse  here — I'll 
watch  him — and  go  and  tell  Sam  Plummer  to  come 
and  get  the  other  men." 

"  G'lang !"  said  Barney,  and  the  horse  pulled  the 
plough  forward  with  a  jerk. 

Mrs.  Thayer  seized  Barney's  arm.  "  You  stop  !" 
said  she.  "  Whoa,  whoa  !  Now  you  look  here,  Bar 
nabas  Thayer.  I  don't  know  what  you  did  to  make 
Cephas  Barnard  order  you  out  of  the  house,  but  I 
know  it  was  something.  I  ain't  goin'  to  believe  it 
was  all  about  the  election.  There  was  something 
back  of  that.  I  ain't  goin'  to  shield  you  because 
you're  my  son.  I  know  jest  how  set  you  can  be  in 
your  own  ways,  and  how  you  can  hang  on  to  your 
temper.  I've  known  you  ever  since  you  was  a  baby ; 
you  can't  teach  me  anything  new  about  yourself.  I 


103 


don't  know  what  you  did  to  make  Cephas  mad,  but 
I  know  what  you've  got  to  do  now.  You  go  and  set 
the  men  to  work  on  that  house  again,  and  then  you 
go  over  to  Cephas  Barnard's,  and  you  tell  him  you're 
sorry  for  what  you've  done.  I  don't  care  anything 
about  Cephas  Barnard,  and  if  I'd  had  my  way  in  the 
first  place  I  wouldn't  have  had  anything  to  do  with 
him  or  his  folks  either ;  but  now  you've  got  to  do 
what's  right  if  you've  gone  as  far  as  this,  and  Char 
lotte's  all  ready  to  be  married.  You  go  right  along, 
Barnabas  Thayer  !" 

Barnabas  stood  immovable,  his  face  set  past  his 
mother,  as  irresponsively  unyielding  as  a  rock. 

"  Be  you  goin'  ?" 

Barnabas  did  not  reply.  His  mother  moved,  and 
brought  her  eyes  on  a  range  with  his,  and  the  two 
faces  confronted  each  other  in  silence,  while  it  was 
as  if  two  wills  clashed  swords  in  advance  of  them. 

Then  Mrs.  Thayer  moved  away.  "  I  ain't  never 
goin'  to  say  anything  more  to  you  about  it,"  she  said  ; 
"  but  there's  one  thing — you  needn't  come  home  to 
dinner.  You  sha'n't  ever  sit  down  to  a  meal  in  your 
father's  and  mother's  house  whilst  this  goes  on." 

"  G'lang  !"  said  Barnabas.  The  horse  started,  and 
he  bent  to  the  plough.  His  mother  stepped  home 
ward  over  the  plough -ridges  with  stern  unyielding- 
steps,  as  if  they  were  her  enemies  slain  in  battle. 

Just  as  she  reached  her  own  yard  her  husband 
drove  in  on  a  rattling  farm  cart.  She  beckoned  to 
him,  and  he  pulled  the  horse  up  short. 


104 


"  I've  told  him  he  needn't  come  home  to  dinner," 
she  said,  standing  close  to  the  wheel. 

Caleb  looked  down  at  her  with  a  scared  expression. 
"  Well,  I  s'poss  you  know  what's  best,  Deborah,"  he 
said. 

"  If  he  can't  do  what's  right  he's  got  to  suffer  for 
it,"  returned  Deborah. 

She  went  into  the  house,  and  Caleb  drove  clanking 
into  the  barn. 

Before  dinner  the  old  man  stole  off  across  lots, 
keeping  well  out  of  sight  of  the  kitchen  windows  lest 
his  wife  should  see  him,  and  pleaded  with  Barnabas, 
but  all  in  vain.  The  young  man  was  more  outspoken 
with  his  father,  but  he  was  just  as  firm. 

"  Your  mother's  terrible  set  about  it,  Barney. 
You'd  better  go  over  to  Charlotte's  an'  make  up." 

"  I  can't;  it's  all  over,"  Barney  said,  in  reply;  and 
Caleb  at  length  plodded  soberly  and  clumsily  home. 

After  dinner  he  went  out  behind  the  barn,  and 
Rebecca,  going  to  feed  the  hens,  found  him  sitting 
under  the  wild-cherry  tree,  fairly  sobbing  in  his  old 
red  handkerchief. 

She  went  near  him,  and  stood  looking  at  him  with 
restrained  sympathy. 

"  Don't  feel  bad,  father,"  she  said,  finally.  "  Bar 
ney  '11  get  over  it,  and  come  to  supper." 

"  No,  he  won't,"  groaned  the  old  man — "  no,  he 
won't.  He's  jest  like  your  mother." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  weeks  went  on,  and  still  Barnabas  had  not 
yielded.  The  story  of  his  quarrel  with  Cephas  Bar 
nard  and  his  broken  engagement  with  Charlotte  had 
become  an  old  one  in  Pembroke,  but  it  had  not  yet 
lost  its  interest.  A  genuine  excitement  was  so  rare 
in  the  little  peaceful  village  that  it  had  to  be  made 
to  last,  and  rolled  charily  under  the  tongue  like  a 
sweet  morsel.  However,  there  seemed  to  be  no  lack 
now,  for  the  one  had  set  others  in  motion :  every 
body  knew  how  Barnabas  Thayer  no  longer  lived 
at  home,  and  did  not  sit  in  his  father's  pew  in 
church,  but  in  the  gallery,  and  how  Richard  Alger 
had  stopped  going  to  see  Sylvia  Crane. 

There  was  not  much  walking  in  the  village,  ex 
cept  to  and  from  church  on  a  Sabbath  day ;  but  now 
on  pleasant  Sabbath  evenings  an  occasional  couple, 
or  an  inquisitive  old  man  with  eyes  sharp  under  white 
brows,  and  chin  set  ahead  like  a  pointer's,  strolled 
past  Sylvia's  house  and  the  Thayer  house,  Barney's 
new  one  and  Cephas  Barnard's. 

They  looked  sharply  and  furtively  to  see  if  Sylvia 
had  a  light  in  her  best  room,  and  if  Richard  Alger's 
head  was  visible  through  the  window,  if  Barney 
Thayer  had  gone  home  and  yielded  to  his  mother's 


106 


commands,  if  an}7  more  work  had  been  done  on  the 
new  house,  and  if  he  perchance  had  gone  a-courting 
Charlotte  again. 

But  they  never  saw  Richard  Alger's  face  in  poor 
Sylvia's  best  room,  although  her  candle  was  always 
lit,  they  never  saw  Barney  at  his  old  home,  the  new 
house  advanced  not  a  step  beyond  its  incomplete 
ness,  and  Barney  never  was  seen  at  Charlotte  Bar 
nard's  on  a  Sabbath  night.  Once,  indeed,  there  was 
a  rumor  to  that  effect.  A  man's  smooth  dark  head 
was  visible  at  one  of  the  front-room  windows  oppo 
site  Charlotte's  fair  one,  and  everybody  took  it  for 
Barney's. 

The  next  morning  Barney's  mother  came  to  the 
door  of  the  new  house.  "  I  want  to  know  if  it's 
true  that  you  went  over  there  last  night,"  she  said ; 
her  voice  was  harsh,  but  her  mouth  was  yielding. 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Barney,  shortly,  and  Deb 
orah  went  away  with  a  harsh  exclamation.  Before 
long  she  knew  and  everybody  else  knew  that  the 
man  who  had  been  seen  at  Charlotte's  window  was 
not  Barney,  but  Thomas  Payne. 

Presently  Ephraim  came  slowly  across  to  the  gar 
den-patch  where  Barney  was  planting.  He  was 
breathing  heavily,  and  grinning.  When  he  reached 
Barney  he  stood  still  watching  him,  and  the  grin 
deepened.  "  Say,  Barney,"  he  panted  at  length. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  You've  lost  your  girl;  did  you  know  it,  Barney  ?" 

Barney    muttered    something    unintelligible  ;     it 


107 


sounded  like  tlie  growl  of  a  dog,  but  Epliraim  was 
not  intimidated.  He  chuckled  with  delight  and 
spoke  again.  "  Say,  Barney,  Thomas  Payne's  got 
your  girl ;  did  you  know  it,  Barney  ?" 

Barney  turned  threateningly,  but  he  was  helpless 
before  his  brother's  sickly  face,  and  Ephraim  knew 
it.  That  purple  hue  and  that  panting  breath  had 
gained  an  armistice  for  him  on  many  a  battle-field, 
and  he  had  a  certain  triumph  in  it.  It  was  power 
of  a  lugubrious  sort,  certainly,  but  still  it  was  power, 
and  so  to  be  enjoyed. 

"  Thomas  Payne's  got  your  girl,"  he  repeated  ; 
"he  was  over  there  a-courtin'  of  her  last  night; 
a-settin'  up  along  of  her." 

Barney  took  a  step  forward,  and  Ephraim  fell 
back  a  little,  still  grinning  imperturbably.  "  You 
mind  your  own  business,"  Barney  said,  between  his 
teeth ;  and  right  upon  his  words  followed  Ephraim's 
hoarse  chuckle  and  his  "  Thomas  Payne's  got  your 
girl." 

Barney  turned  about  and  went  on  with  his  plant 
ing.  Ephraim,  standing  a  little  aloof,  somewhat 
warily  since  his  brother's  threatening  advance,  kept 
repeating  his  one  remark,  as  mocking  as  the  snarl 
of  a  mosquito.  "  Thomas  Payne's  got  your  girl, 
Barney.  Say,  did  you  know  it?  Thomas  Payne's 
got  your  girl." 

Finally  Ephraim  stepped  close  to  Barney  and  shout 
ed  it  into  his  ear :  "  Say,  Barney,  Barney  Thayer, 
be  you  deaf  ?  Thomas  Payne  has  got — your — girl  /" 


108 


But  Barney  planted  on ;  his  nerves  were  quivering, 
the  impetus  to  strike  out  was  so  strong  in  his  arms 
that  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  by  sheer  mental  force 
affect  his  teasing  brother,  but  he  made  no  sign,  and 
said  not  another  word. 

Ephraim,  worsted  at  length  by  silence,  beat  a  grad 
ual  retreat.  Half-way  across  the  field  his  panting 
voice  called  back,  "  Barney,  Thomas  Payne  has  got 
your  girl,"  and  ended  in  a  choking  giggle.  Barney 
planted,  and  made  no  response ;  but  when  Ephraim 
was  well  out  of  sight,  he  flung  down  his  hoe  with  a 
groaning  sigh,  and  went  stumbling  across  the  soft 
loam  of  the  garden-patch  into  a  little  woody  thicket 
beside  it.  He  penetrated  deeply  between  the  trees 
and  underbrush,  and  at  last  flung  himself  down  on 
his  face  among  the  soft  young  flowers  and  weeds. 
"  Oh,  Charlotte  !"  he  groaned  out.  "  Oh,  Charlotte, 
Charlotte  !"  Barney  began  sobbing  and  crying  like 
a  child  as  he  lay  there ;  he  moved  his  arms  convul 
sively,  and  tore  up  handfuls  of  young  grass  and 
leaves,  and  flung  them  away  in  the  unconscious  gest 
uring  of  grief.  "  Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't !"  he  groaned. 
"  I — can't — Charlotte  !  I  can't — let  any  other  man 
have  you  !  No  other  man  shall  have  you  !"  he  cried 
out,  fiercely,  and  flung  up  his  head  ;  "  you  are  mine, 
mine  !  I'll  kill  any  other  man  that  touches  you  !" 
Barney  got  up,  and  his  face  was  flaming ;  he  started 
off  with  a  great  stride,  and  then  he  stopped  short 
and  flung  an  arm  around  the  slender  trunk  of  a  white- 
birch  tree,  and  pulled  it  against  him  and  leaned 


109 


against  it  as  if  it  were  Charlotte,  and  laid  his  cheek 
on  the  cool  white  bark  and  sobbed  again  like  a  girl. 
"  Oh,  Charlotte,  Charlotte  !"  he  moaned,  and  his  voice 
was  drowned  out  by  the  manifold  rustling  of  the 
young  birch  leaves,  as  a  human  grief  is  overborne 
and  carried  out  of  sight  by  the  soft,  resistless  prog 
ress  of  nature. 

Barney,  although  his  faith  in  Charlotte  had  been 
as  strong  as  any  man's  should  be  in  his  promised 
wife,  had  now  no  doubt  but  this  other  man  had  met 
with  favor  in  her  eyes.  But  he  had  no  blame  for 
her,  nor  even  any  surprise  at  her  want  of  constancy. 
He  blamed  the  Lord,  for  Charlotte  as  well  as  for 
himself.  "  If  this  hadn't  happened  she  never  would 
have  looked  at  any  one  else,"  he  thought,  and  his 
thought  had  the  force  of  a  blow  against  fate. 

This  Thomas  Payne  was  the  best  match  in  the 
village ;  he  was  the  squire's  son,  good-looking,  and 
college-educated.  Barney  had  always  known  that 
he  fancied  Charlotte,  and  had  felt  a  certain  triumph 
that  he  had  won  her  in  the  face  of  it.  "  You  might 
have  somebody  that's  a  good  deal  better  off  if  you 
didn't  have  me,"  he  said  to  her  once,  and  they  both 
knew  whom  he  meant.  "  I  don't  want  anybody  else," 
Charlotte  had  replied,  with  her  shy  stateliness.  Now 
Barney  thought  that  she  had  changed  her  mind  ; 
and  why  should  she  not  ?  A  girl  ought  to  marry  if 
she  could;  he  could  not  marry  her  himself,  and 
should  not  expect  her  to  remain  single  all  her  life 
for  his  sake.  Of  course  Charlotte  wanted  to  be  mar- 


110 


ried,  like  other  women.  This  probable  desire  of 
Charlotte's  for  love  and  marriage  in  itself,  apart  from 
him,  thrilled  his  male  fancy  with  a  certain  holy  awe 
and  respect,  from  his  love  for  her  and  utter  igno 
rance  of  the  attitude  of  womankind.  Then,  too,  he 
reflected  that  Thomas  Payne  would  probably  make 
her  a  good  husband.  "  He  can  buy  her  everything 
she  w7ants,"  he  thought,  with  a  curious  mixture  of 
gratulation  for  her  and  agony  on  his  own  account. 
He  thought  of  the  little  bonnets  he  had  meant  to 
buy  for  her  himself,  and  these  details  pierced  his 
heart  like  needles.  He  sobbed,  and  the  birch-tree 
quivered  in  a  wind  of  human  grief.  He  saw  Char 
lotte  going  to  church  in  her  bridal  bonnet  with 
Thomas  Payne  more  plainly  than  he  could  ever  see 
her  in  life,  for  a  torturing  imagination  reflects  life 
like  a  magnifying -glass,  and  makes  it  clearer  and 
larger  than  reality.  He  saw  Charlotte  with  Thomas 
Payne,  blushing  all  over  her  proud,  delicate  face  when 
he  looked  at  her ;  he  saw  her  with  Thomas  Payne's 
children.  "  0  God  !"  he  gasped,  and  he  threw  him 
self  down  on  the  ground  again,  and  lay  there,  face 
downward,  motionless  as  if  fate  had  indeed  seized 
him  and  shaken  the  life  out  of  him  and  left  him 
there  for  dead  ;  but  it  was  his  own  will  which  was 
his  fate. 

"Barney,"  his  father  called,  somewhere  out  in  the 
field.  "  Barney,  where  be  you  ?" 

"  I'm  coming,"  Barney  called  back,  in  a  surly  voice, 
and  he  pulled  himself  up  and  pushed  his  way  out  of 


Ill 


the  thicket  to  the  ploughed  field  where  his  father 
stood. 

"  Oh,  there  you  be  !"  said  Caleb.  Barney  grunted 
something  inarticulate,  and  took  up  his  hoe  again. 
Caleb  stood  watching  him,  his  eyes  irresolute  under 
anxiously  frowning  brows.  "Barney,"  he  said,  at 
length. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  I've  jest  heard —  "  the  old  man  began  ;  then  he 
stopped  with  a  jump. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  what  you've  heard.  Keep 
it  to  yourself  if  you've  heard  anything !"  Barney 
shouted. 

"I  didn't  know  as  you  knew,"  Caleb  stammered, 
apologetically.  "  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  heard, 
Barney." 

Caleb  went  to  the  edge  of  the  field,  and  sat  down 
on  a  great  stone  under  a  wild-cherry  tree.  He  was 
not  feeling  very  well ;  his  head  was  dizzy,  and  his 
wife  had  given  him  a  bowl  of  thoroughwort  and 
ordered  him  not  to  work. 

Caleb  pushed  his  hat  back  and  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  It  was  hot,  and  his  face  was 
flushed.  He  watched  his  son  following  up  his  work 
with  dogged  energy  as  if  it  were  an  enemy,  and  his 
mind  seemed  to  turn  stupid  in  the  face  of  speculation, 
like  a  boy's  over  a  problem  in  arithmetic. 

There  was  no  human  being  so  strange  and  mysteri 
ous,  such  an  unknown  quantity,  to  Caleb  Thayer  as 
his  own  son.  He  had  not  one  trait  of  character  in 


112 


common  with  him — at  least,  not  one  so  translated  into 
his  own  vernacular  that  he  could  comprehend  it.  It 
was  to  Caleb  as  if  he  looked  in  a  glass  expecting  to  see 
his  own  face,  and  saw  therein  the  face  of  a  stranger. 

The  wind  was  quite  cool,  and  blew  full  on  Caleb 
as  he  sat  there.  Barney  kept  glancing  at  him.  At 
length  he  spoke.  "  You'll  get  cold  if  you  sit  there 
in  that  wind,  father,"  he  sang  out,  and  there  was  a 
rude  kindliness  in  his  tone. 

Caleb  jumped  up  with  alacrity.  u  I  dunno  but  I 
shall.  I  guess  you're  right.  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  set  here 
but  a  minute,"  he  answered,  eagerly.  Then  he  went 
over  to  Barney  again,  and  stood  near  watching  him. 
Barney's  hoe  clinked  on  a  stone,  and  he  stooped 
and  picked  it  out  of  the  loam,  and  threw  it  away. 
"There's  a  good  many  stone  in  this  field,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"  There's  some." 

"  It  was  a  heap  of  work  clearin'  of  it  in  the  first 
place.  You  wa'n't  more'n  two  year  old  when  I  cleared 
it.  My  brother  Simeon  helped  me.  It  was  five  year 
before  he  got  the  fever  an'  died."  Caleb  looked  at 
his  son  with  anxious  pleading  which  was  out  of  pro 
portion  to  his  words,  and  seemed  to  apply  to  some 
thing  behind  them  in  his  own  mind. 

Barney  worked  on  silently. 

"  I  don't  believe  but  what  —  if  you  was  —  to  go 
over  there — you  could  get  her  back  again  now,  away 
from  that  Payne  fellar,"  Caleb  blurted  out,  suddenly  ; 
then  he  shrank  back  as  if  from  an  anticipated  blow. 


113 


Barney  threw  a  hoeful  of  earth  high  in  air  and 
faced  his  father. 

"  Once  for  all,  father,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  want  to 
hear  another  word  about  this." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  nothin',  Barney,  but  I  kinder 
thought — " 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  thought.  Keep  your 
thoughts  to  yourself." 

"  I  know  she  allers  thought  a  good  deal  of  you, 
an'—" 

"  I  don't  want  another  word  out  of  your  mouth 
about  it,  father." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  nothin'  about  it  if  you 
don't  want  me  to,  Barney  ;  but  you  know  how  mother 
feels,  an' —  Well,  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  no  more." 

Caleb  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  set 
off  across  the  field.  Just  before  he  was  out  of  hear 
ing,  Barney  hailed  him. 

"Do  you  feel  better'n  you  did,  father?"  said  he. 

"  What  say,  Barney  ?" 

"  Do  you  feel  better'n  you  did  this  morning  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  feel  some  better,  Barney — some  consider 
able  better."  Caleb  started  to  go  back  to  Barney ; 
then  he  paused  and  stood  irresolute,  smiling  towards 
him.  "  I  feel  considerable  better,"  he  called  again ; 
"  my  head  ain't  nigh  so  dizzy  as  'twas." 

"  You'd  better  go  home,  father,  and  lay  down,  and 
see  if  you  can't  get  a  nap,"  called  Barney. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  I  will ;  I  guess  'twould  be  a  good 
plan,"  returned  the  old  man,  in  a  pleased  voice.  And 


114 


he  went  on,  clambered  clumsily  over  a  stone-wall,  dis 
appeared  behind  some  trees,  reappeared  in  the  open, 
then  disappeared  finally  over  the  slope  of  the  hilly 
field. 

It  was  just  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Presently 
a  woman  came  hurrying  across  the  field,  with  some 
needle-work  gathered  up  in  her  arms.  She  had  been 
spending  the  afternoon  at  a  neighbor's  with  her  sew 
ing,  and  was  now  hastening  home  to  get  supper  for 
her  husband.  She  was  a  pretty  woman,  and  she  had 
not  been  married  long.  She  nodded  to  Barney  as  she 
hurried  past  him,  holding  up  her  gay-flowered  calico 
skirt  tidily.  Her  smooth  fair  hair  shone  like  satin  in 
the  sun  ;  she  wore  a  little  blue  kerchief  tied  over  her 
head,  and  it  slipped  back  as  she  ran  against  the  wind. 
She  did  not  speak  to  Barney  nor  smile ;  he  thought 
her  handsome  face  looked  severely  at  him.  She  had 
always  known  him,  although  she  had  not  been  one  of 
his  mates ;  she  was  somewhat  older. 

Barney  felt  a  pang  of  misery  as  this  fair,  severe, 
and  happy  face  passed  him  by.  He  wondered  if  she 
had  been  up  to  Charlotte's,  and  if  Charlotte  or  her 
mother  had  been  talking  to  her,  and  if  she  knew 
about  Thomas  Payne.  He  watched  her  out  of  sight 
in  a  swirl  of  gay  skirts,  her  blue  and  golden  head 
bobbing  with  her  dancing  steps ;  then  he  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  at  his  poor  new  house,  with  its  fire- 
less  chimneys.  If  all  had  gone  well,  he  and  Char 
lotte  would  have  been  married  by  this  time,  and  she 
would  have  been  bestirring  herself  to  get  supper  for 


115 


him — perhaps  running  home  from  a  neighbor's  with 
her  sewing  as  this  other  woman  was  doing.  All  the 
sweet  domestic  comfort  which  he  had  missed  seemed 
suddenly  to  toss  above  his  eyes  like  the  one  desired 
fruit  of  his  whole  life ;  its  wonderful  unknown  fla 
vor  tantalized  his  soul.  All  at  once  he  thought  how 
Charlotte  would  prepare  supper  for  another  man, 
and  the  thought  seemed  to  tear  his  heart  like  a  pan 
ther.  "  He  sha'n't  have  her !"  he  cried  out,  quite 
loudly  and  fiercely.  His  own  voice  seemed  to  quiet 
him,  and  he  fell  to  work  again  with  his  mouth  set 
hard. 

In  half  an  hour  he  quitted  work,  and  went  up  to 
his  house  with  his  hoe  over  his  shoulder  like  a  bay 
onet.  The  house  was  just  as  the  workmen  had  left 
it  on  the  night  before  his  quarrel  with  Cephas  Bar 
nard.  He  had  himself  fitted  some  glass  into  the 
windows  of  the  kitchen  and  bedroom,  and  boarded 
up  the  others — that  was  all.  He  had  purchased  a 
few  simple  bits  of  furniture,  and  set  up  his  miserable 
bachelor  house-keeping.  Barney  was  no  cook,  and 
he  could  purchase  no  cooked  food  in  Pembroke. 
He  had  subsisted  mostly  upon  milk  and  eggs  and  a 
poor  and  lumpy  quality  of  corn-meal  mush,  which  he 
had  made  shift  to  stir  up  after  many  futile  efforts. 

The  first  thing  which  he  saw  on  entering  the 
room  to-night  was  a  generous  square  of  light  Indian 
cake  on  the  table.  It  was  not  in  a  plate,  the  edges 
were  bent  and  crumbling,  and  the  whole  square 
looked  somewhat  flattened.  Barney  knew  at  once 


116 


that  his  father  had  saved  it  from  his  own  supper, 
had  slipped  it  slyly  into  his  pocket,  and  stolen  across 
the  field  with  it.  His  mother  had  not  given  him  a 
mouthful  since  she  had  forbidden  him  to  come  home 
to  dinner,  and  his  sister  had  not  dared. 

Barney  sat  down  and  ate  the  Indian  cake,  a  soli 
tary  householder  at  his  solitary  table,  around  which 
there  would  never  be  any  faces  but  those  of  his  dead 
dreams.  Afterwards  he  pulled  a  chair  up  to  an  open 
window,  and  sat  there,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  sill, 
staring  out  vacantly.  The  sun  set,  and  the  dusk 
deepened ;  the  air  was  loud  with  birds ;  there  were 
shouts  of  children  in  the  distance  ;  gradually  these 
died  away,  and  the  stars  came  out.  The  wind  was 
damp  and  sweet ;  over  in  the  field  pale  shapes  of 
mist  wavered  and  changed  like  phantoms.  A  woman 
came  running  noiselessly  into  the  yard,  and  pressed 
against  the  door  panting,  and  knocked.  Barney  saw 
the  swirl  of  light  skirts  around  the  corner ;  then  the 
knock  came. 

He  got  up,  trembling,  and  opened  the  door,  and 
stood, there  looking  at  the  woman,  who  held  her 
hooded  head  down. 

"  It's  me,  Barney,"  said  Charlotte's  voice. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Barney,  and  he  moved  aside. 

But  Charlotte  stood  still.  "  I  can  say  what  I  want 
to  here,"  she  whispered,  panting.  "  Barney." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Barney." 

Barney  waited. 


117 


"  I've  come  over  here  to  -  night,  Barney,  to  see 
you,"  said  Charlotte,  with  solemn  pauses  between 
her  words.  "  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to ;  I  don't 
know  but  I  ought  to  have  more  pride.  1  thought  at 
first  I  never — could — but  afterwards  I  thought  it  was 
my  duty.  Barney,  are  you  going  to  let — anything 
like  this — come  between  us — forever?" 

"  There's  no  use  talking,  Charlotte." 

Charlotte's  hooded  figure  stood  before  him  stiff 
and  straight.  There  was  resolution  in  her  carriage, 
and  her  pleading  tone  was  grave  and  solemn. 

"  Barney,"  she  said  again  ;  and  Barney  waited,  his 
pale  face  standing  aloof  in  the  dark. 

"Barney,  do  you  think  it  is  right  to  let  anything 
like  this  come  between  you  and  me,  when  we  were 
almost  husband  and  wife  ?" 

"  It's  no  use  talking,  Charlotte." 

"  Do  you  think  this  is  right,  Barney  ?" 

Barney  was  silent. 

"  If  you  can't  answer  me  I  will  go  home,"  said 
Charlotte,  and  she  turned,  but  Barney  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  He  held  her  close,  breathing  in  great 
pants.  He  pulled  her  hood  back  with  trembling 
strength,  and  kissed  her  over  and  over,  roughly. 

"  Charlotte,"  he  half  sobbed. 

Charlotte's  voice,  full  of  a  great  womanly  indigna 
tion,  sounded  in  his  ear.  "  Barney,  you  let  me  go," 
she  said,  and  Barney  obeyed. 

"  When  I  came  here  alone  this  way  I  trusted  you 
to  treat  me  like  a  gentleman,"  said  she.  She  pulled 


118 


her  hood  over  her  face  again  and  turned  to  go.  "  I 
shall  never  speak  to  you  about  this  again,"  said  she. 
"  You  have  chosen  your  own  way,  and  you  know  best 
whether  it's  right,  or  you're  happy  in  it." 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  happy,  Charlotte,"  Barney  said, 
with  a  great  sigh. 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  you,"  said 
Charlotte,  coldly. 

"Yes,  it  does;  it  does,  Charlotte  !  When  I  heard 
about  Thomas  Payne,  I  felt  as  if — if  it  would  make 
you  happy.  I — " 

"  What  about  Thomas  Payne  ?"  asked  Charlotte, 
sharply. 

"  I  heard — how  he  was  coming  to  see  you — " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  want  me  to  marry  Thom 
as  Payne,  Barney  Thayer  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Charlotte." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  marry  Thomas  Payne  ?" 

Barney  was  silent. 

"  Answer  me,"  cried  Charlotte. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Barney,  firmly,  "  if  it  would 
make  you  happy." 

"  You  want  me  to  marry  Thomas  Payne  ?"  repeat 
ed  Charlotte.  "  You  want  me  to  be  his  wife  instead 
of  yours,  and  go  to  live  with  him  instead  of  you  ? 
You  want  me  to  live  with  another  man  ?" 

"  It  ain't  right  for  you  not  to  get  married,"  Barney 
said,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  strange. 

".You  want  me  to  get  married  to  another  man  ? 
Do  you  know  what  it  means  ?" 


119 


Barney  gave  a  groan  that  was  half  a  cry. 

"Do  you?" 

"  Oh,  Charlotte  !"  Barney  groaned,  as  if  imploring 
her  for  pity. 

"You  want  me  to  marry  Thomas  Payne,  and  live 
with  him — " 

"  He'd — make  you  a  good  husband.  He's — Char 
lotte —  I  can't.  You've  got  to  be  happy.  It  isn't 
right— I  can't—" 

"  Well,"  said  Charlotte,  "  I  will  marry  him.  Good 
night,  Barney  Thayer."  She  went  swiftly  out  of  the 
yard. 

"  Charlotte  !"  Barney  called  after  her,  as  if  against 
his  will ;  but  she  never  turned  her  head. 


CHAPTER   VII 

ON  the  north  side  of  the  old  tavern  was  a  great 
cherry  orchard.  In  years  back  it  had  been  a  source 
of  considerable  revenue  to  Silas  Berry,  but  for  some 
seasons  his  returns  from  it  had  been  very  small. 
The  cherries  had  rotted  on  the  branches,  or  the  rob 
ins  had  eaten  them,  for  Silas  would  not  give  them 
away.  Rose  and  her  mother  would  smuggle  a  few 
small  baskets  of  cherries  to  Sylvia  Crane  and  Mrs. 
Barnard,  but  Silas's  displeasure,  had  he  found  them 
out,  would  have  been  great.  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  give 
them  cherries  away  to  nobody,"  he  would  proclaim. 
"  If  folks  don't  want  'em  enough  to  pay  for  'em  they 
can  go  without." 

Many  a  great  cherry  picnic  had  been  held  in  Silas 
Berry's  orchard.  Parties  had  come  in  great  rattling 
wagons  from  all  the  towns  about,  and  picked  cher 
ries  and  ate  their  fill  at  a  most  overreaching  and  ex 
orbitant  price. 

There  were  no  cherries  like  those  in  Silas  Berry's 
orchard  in  all  the  country  roundabout.  There  was 
no  competition,  and  for  many  years  he  had  had  it  all 
his  own  way.  The  young  people's  appetite  for  cher 
ries  and  their  zeal  for  pleasure  had  overcome  their 
indignation  at  his  usury.  But  at  last  Silas's  greed 


121 


got  the  better  of  his  financial  shrewdness  ;  lie  in 
creased  his  price  for  cherries  every  season,  and  the 
year  after  the  tavern  closed  it  became  so  preposter 
ous  that  there  was  a  rebellion.  It  was  headed  by 
Thomas  Payne,  who,  as  the  squire's  son  and  the  rich 
est  and  most  freehanded  young  man  in  town,  could 
incur  no  suspicion  of  parsimony.  Going  one  night  to 
the  old  tavern  to  make  terms  with  Silas  for  the  use 
of  his  cherry  orchard,  for  a  party  which  included 
some  of  his  college  friends  from  Boston  and  his  fine 
young-lady  cousin  from  New  York,  and  hearing  the 
preposterous  sum  which  Silas  stated  as  final,  he  had 
turned  on  his  heel  with  a  strong  word  under  his 
breath.  "  You  can  eat  your  cherries  yourself  and  be 
damned,"  said  Thomas  Payne,  and  was  out  of  the 
yard  with  the  gay  swagger  which  he  had  learned  along 
with  his  Greek  and  Latin  at  college.  The  next  day 
Silas  saw  the  party  in  Squire  Payne's  big  wagon,  with 
Thomas  driving,  and  the  cousin's  pink  cheeks  and 
white  plumed  hat  conspicuous  in  the  midst,  pass 
merrily  on  their  way  to  a  cherryless  picnic  at  a  neigh 
boring  pond,  and  the  young  college  men  shouted  out 
a  doggerel  couplet  which  the  wit  of  the  party  had 
made  and  set  to  a  rough  tune. 

"  Who  lives  here  ?"  the  basses  demanded  in  grim 
melody,  and  the  tenors  responded,  "  Old  Silas  Berry, 
who  charges  sixpence  for  a  cherry." 

Silas  heard  the  mocking  refrain  repeated  over  and 
over  between  shouts  of  laughter  long  after  they  were 
out  of  sight. 


122 


Rose,  who  had  not  been  bidden  to  the  picnic, 
heard  it  and  wept  as  she  peered  around  her  curtain 
at  the  gay  part}7.  William,  who  had  also  not  been 
bidden,  stormed  at  his  father,  and  his  mother  joined 
him. 

"  You're  jest  a-puttin'  your  own  eyes  out,  Silas 
Berry,"  said  she;  "you  hadn't  no  business  to  ask 
such  a  price  for  them  cherries ;  it's  more  than  they 
are  worth ;  folks  won't  stand  it.  You  asked  too 
much  for  'em  last  year." 

"  I  know  what  I'm  about,"  returned  Silas,  sitting 
in  his  arm-chair  at  the  window,  with  dogged  chin  on 
his  breast. 

"  You  wait  an'  see,"  said  Hannah.  "  You've  jest 
put  your  own  eyes  out." 

And  after -events  proved  that  Hannah  was  right. 
Silas  Berry's  cherry  orchard  was  subjected  to  a  spe 
cies  of  ostracism  in  the  village.  There  were  no  more 
picnics  held  there,  people  would  buy  none  of  his 
cherries,  and  he  lost  all  the  little  income  which  he 
had  derived  from  them.  Hannah  often  twitted  him 
with  it.  "  You  can  see  now  that  what  I  told  you 
was  true,"  said  she ;  "  you  put  your  own  eyes  out." 
Silas  would  say  nothing  in  reply ;  he  would  simply 
make  an  animal  sound  of  defiance  like  a  grunt  in  his 
throat,  and  frown.  If  Hannah  kept  on,  he  would 
stump  heavily  out  of  the  room,  and  swing  the  door 
.back  with  a  bang. 

This  season  Hannah  had  taunted  her  husband  more 
than  usual  with  his  ill-judged  parsimony  in  the  mat- 


123 


ter  of  the  cherries.  The  trees  were  quite  loaded  with 
the  small  green  fruit,  and  there  promised  to  be  a  very 
large  crop.  One  day  Silas  turned  on  her.  "  You 
wait,"  said  he ;  "  mebbe  I  know  what  I'm  about, 
more'n  you  think  I  do." 

Hannah  scowled  with  sharp  interrogation  at  her 
husband's  shrewdly  leering  face.  "  What  be  you 
agoin'  to  do  ?"  she  demanded.  But  she  got  no  more 
out  of  him. 

One  morning  about  two  weeks  before  the  cherries 
were  ripe  Silas  went  halting  in  a  casual  way  across 
the  south  yard  towards  his  daughter  Rose,  who  was 
spreading  out  some  linen  to  bleach.  He  picked  up 
a  few  stray  sticks  on  the  way,  ostentatiously,  as  if 
that  were  his  errand. 

Rose  was  spreading  out  the  lengths  of  linen  in  a 
wide  sunny  space  just  outside  the  shade  of  the  cherry- 
trees.  Her  father  paused,  tilted  his  head  back,  and 
eyed  the  trees  with  a  look  of  innocent  reflection. 
Rose  glanced  at  him,  then  she  went  on  with  her 
work. 

"Guess  there's  goin'  to  be  considerable  many 
cherries  this  year,"  remarked  her  father,  in  an  affa 
ble  and  confidential  tone. 

"  I  guess  so,"  replied  Rose,  shortly,  and  she 
flapped  out  an  end  of  the  wet  linen.  The  cherries 
were  a  sore  subject  with  her. 

"  I  guess  there's  goin'  to  be.  more  than  common," 
said  Silas,  still  gazing  up  at  the  green  boughs  full  of 
green  fruit  clusters. 


124 


Rose  made  no  reply ;  slie  was  down  on  her  knees 
in  the  grass  stretching  the  linen  straight. 

"  IVe  been  thinkin', "  her  father  continued,  slow 
ly,  "  that — mebbe  you'd  like  to  have  a  little — party, 
an'  ask  some  of  the  young  folks,  an'  eat  some  of  'em 
when  they  get  ripe.  You  could  have  four  trees  to 
pick  off  of." 

"  I  should  think  we'd  had  enough  of  cherry  par 
ties,"  Rose  cried  out,  bitterly. 

"  I  didn't  say  nothin'  about  havin'  'em  pay  any 
thing,"  said  her  father. 

Rose  straightened  herself  and  looked  at  him  in 
credulously.  "  Do  you  mean  it,  father  ?"  said  she. 

"  'Ain't  I  jest  said  you  might,  if  you  wanted  to  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  have  them  come  here  and  not 
pay,  father  ?" 

"  There  ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  sell  any  of  'em,"  re 
plied  Silas.  "  You  can  talk  it  over  with  your  mother, 
an'  do  jest  as  you're  a  mind  to  about  it,  that's  all.  If 
you  want  to  have  a  few  of  the  young  folks  over  here 
when  them  cherries  are  ripe,  you  can  have  four  of 
them  trees  to  pick  off  of.  I  ain't  got  no  more  to  say 
about  it." 

Silas  turned  in  a  peremptory  and  conclusive  man 
ner.  Rose  fairly  gasped  as  she  watched  his  stiff  one 
sided  progress  across  the  yard.  The  vague  horror  of 
the  unusual  stole  over  her.  A  new  phase  of  her  fa 
ther's  character  stood  between  her  and  all  her  old 
memories  like  a  supernatural  presence.  She  left  the 
rest  of  the  linen  in  the  basket  and  sought  her 


125 


mother  in  the  house.  "  Mother !"  she  called  out,  in 
a  cautious  voice,  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Berry's  face  looked  inquiringly  out  of  the  pan 
try,  and  Rose  motioned  her  back,  went  in  herself, 
and  shut  the  door. 

"  What  be  you  a-shuttin'  the  door  for  ?"  asked  her 
mother,  wonderingly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  father." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Rose  Berry  ?  He  'ain't  had 
another  shock  ?" 

"  I'm  dreadful  afraid  he's  going  to  !  I'm  dreadful 
afraid  something's  going  to  happen  to  him  !" 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean?"  Mrs.  Berry 
was  quite  pale. 

"  Father  says  1  can  have  a  cherry  party,  and  they 
needn't  pay  anything." 

Her  mother  stared  at  her.     "  He  didn't !" 

"  Yes,  he  did." 

They  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  with  silent  re 
newals  of  doubt  and  affirmation.  Finally  Mrs.  Berry 
laughed.  "  H'm  !  Don't  you  see  what  your  father's 
up  to  ?"  she  said. 

"  No,  I  don't.     I'm  scared." 

"  You  needn't  be.  You  ain't  very  cute.  He's  an 
old  head.  He  thinks  if  he  has  this  cherry  party  for 
nothin'  folks  will  overlook  that  other  affair,  an'  next 
year  they'll  buy  the  cherries  again.  Mebbe  he  thinks 
they'll  buy  the  other  trees  this  year,  after  the  party. 
How  many  trees  did  he  say  you  could  have  ?" 

"  Four.     Maybe  that  is  it." 


126 


"  Of  course  'tis.  Your  father's  an  old  head.  Well, 
you'd  better  ask  'em.  They  won't  see  through  it, 
and  it  '11  make  things  pleasanter.  I've  felt  bad 
enough  about  it.  I  guess  Mis'  Thayer  won't  look 
down  on  us  quite  so-  much  if  we  ask  a  party  here 
and  let  'em  eat  cherries  for  nothin'.  It's  more'n 
she'd  do,  I'll  warrant." 

"  Maybe  they  won't  any  of  them  come,"  said 
Rose. 

"H'm!  Don't  you  worry  about  that.  They'll 
come  fast  enough.  I  never  see  any  trouble  yet  about 
folks  comin'  to  get  anything  good  that  they  didn't 
have  to  pay  for." 

Rose  and  her  mother  calculated  how  many  to  in 
vite  to  the  party.  They  decided  to  include  all  the 
available  young  people  in  Pembroke. 

"  We  might  jest  as  well  while  we're  about  it,"  said 
Hannah,  judiciously.  "  There  are  cherries  enough, 
and  the  Lord  only  knows  when  your  father  '11  have 
another  freak  like  this.  I  guess  it's  like  an  eclipse 
of  the  sun,  an'  won't  come  again  very  soon." 

Within  a  day  or  two  all  the  young  people  had 
been  bidden  to  the  cherry  party,  and,  as  Mrs.  Berry 
had  foretold,  accepted.  Their  indignation  was  not 
proof  against  the  prospect  of  pleasure ;  and,  more 
over,  they  all  liked  Rose  and  William,  and  would  not 
have  refused  on  their  account. 

The  week  before  the  party,  when  the  cherries  were 
beginning  to  turn  red,  and  the  robins  had  found  them 
out,  was  an  arduous  one  to  little  Ezra  Ray,  a  young 


127 


brother  of  Tommy  Ray,  who  tended  in  Silas  Berry's 
store.  He  was  hired  for  twopence  to  sit  all  day  in 
the  cherry  orchard  and  ring  a  cow-bell  whenever  the 
robins  made  excursions  into  the  trees.  From  earliest 
dawn  when  the  birds  were  first  astir,  until  they  sought 
their  little  nests,  did  Ezra  sit  uncomfortably  upon  a 
hard  peaked  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  orchard  and 
jingle  his  bell. 

He  was  white-headed,  and  large  of  his  age  like  his 
brother.  His  pale  blue  eyes  were  gravely  vacant  un 
der  his  thick  white  thatch ;  his  chin  dropped ;  his 
mouth  gaped  with  stolid  patience.  There  was  no 
mitigation  for  his  dull  task ;  he  was  not  allowed  to 
keep  his  vigil  on  a  comfortable  branch  of  a  tree  with 
the  mossy  trunk  for  a  support  to  his  back,  lest  he  might 
be  tempted  to  eat  of  the  cherries,  and  turn  pal  of  the 
robins  instead  of  enemy.  He  dared  not  pull  down 
any  low  bough  and  have  a  surreptitious  feast,  for  he 
understood  well  that  there  were  likely  to  be  sharp 
eyes  at  the  rear  windows  of  the  house,  that  it  was  al 
ways  probable  that  old  Silas  Berry,  of  whom  he  was 
in  mortal  fear,  might  be  standing  at  his  back,  and, 
moreover,  he  should  be  questioned,  and  had  not  false 
hood  for  refuge,  for  he  was  a  good  child,  and  would 
be  constrained  to  speak  the  truth. 

They  would  not  let  him  have  a  gun  instead  of  a 
bell,  although  he  pleaded  hard.  Could  he  have  sat 
there  presenting  a  gun  like  a  sentry  on  duty,  the  week, 
in  spite  of  discomfort  and  deprivations,  would  have 
been  full  of  glory  and  excitement.  As  it  was,  the 


128 


dulness  and  monotony  of  the  jingling  of  the  cow-bell 
made  even  his  stupid  childish  mind  dismal.  All  the 
pleasant  exhilaration  of  youth  seemed  to  have  desert 
ed  the  boy,  and  life  to  him  became  as  inane  and  bo 
vine  as  to  the  original  ringer  of  that  bell  grazing  all 
the  season  in  her  own  shadow  over  the  same  pasture- 
ground. 

And  more  than  all,  that  twopence  for  which  Ezra 
toiled  so  miserably  was  to  go  towards  the  weaving  of 
a  rag  carpet  which  his  mother  was  making,  and  for 
which  she  was  saving  every  penny.  He  could  not 
lay  it  out  in  red-and-white  sugar-sticks  at  the  store. 
He  sat  there  all  the  week,  and  every  time  there  was 
a  whir  of  little  brown  wings  and  the  darting  flash  of 
a  red  breast  among  the  cherry  branches  he  rang  in 
frantic  haste  the  old  cow-bell.  All  the  solace  he  ob 
tained  was  an  occasional  robin-pecked  cherry  which 
he  found  in  the  grass,  and  then  Mr.  Berry  questioned 
him  severely  when  he  saw  stains  around  his  mouth 
and  on  his  fingers. 

He  was  on  hand  early  in  tho  morning  on  the  day 
of  the  cherry  picnic,  trudging  half  awake,  with  the 
taste  of  breakfast  in  his  mouth,  through  the  acres  of 
white  dewy  grass.  He  sat  on  his  rock  until  the 
grass  was  dry,  and  patiently  jingled  his  cow-bell.  It 
was  to  young  Ezra  Ray,  although  all  unwittingly,  as 
if  he  himself  were  assisting  in  the  operations  of  nat 
ure.  He  watched  so  assiduously  that  it  was  as  if  he 
dried  the  dewy  grass  and  ripened  the  cherries. 

When  the  cherry  party  began  to  arrive  he  still  sat 


on  his  rock  and  jingled  his  bell ;  lie  did  not  know 
when  to  stop.  But  his  eyes  were  upon  the  assem 
bling  people  rather  than  upon  the  robins.  He 
watched  the  brave  young  men  whose  ignominy  of 
boyhood  was  past,  bearing  ladders  and  tossing  up 
shining  tin  pails  as  they  came.  He  watched  the 
girls  swinging  their  little  straw  baskets  daintily ; 
his  stupidly  wondering  eyes  followed  especially  Re 
becca  Thayer.  Rebecca,  in  her  black  muslin,  with 
her  sweet  throat  fairly  dazzling  above  the  half-low 
bodice,  and  wound  about  twice  with  a  slender  gold 
chain,  with  her  black  silk  apron  embroidered  with 
red  roses,  and  beautiful  face  glowing  with  rich  color 
between  the  black  folds  of  her  hair,  held  the  instinct 
ive  attention  of  the  boy.  He  stared  at  her  as  she 
stood  talking  to  another  girl  with  her  back  quite 
turned  upon  all  the  young  men,  until  his  own  sister 
touched  him  upon  the  shoulder  with  a  sharp  nudge 
of  a  bony  little  hand. 

Amelia  Ray's  face,  blonde  like  her  brother's,  but 
sharp  with  the  sharpness  of  the  thin  and  dark,  was 
thrust  into  his.  "  You  must  go  right  home  now," 
declared  her  high  voice.  "  Mother  said  so." 

"  I'm  going  to  stay  and  help  pick  'em,"  said  Ezra, 
in  a  voice  which  was  not  affirmative. 

"  No,  you  ain't." 

"I  can  climb  trees." 

"  You've  got  to  go  right  straight  home.  Mother 
wants  you  to  wind  balls  for  the  rag  carpet." 

And  then  Ezra  Ray,  with  disconsolate  gaping  face 


130 


over  his  shoulder,  retreated  with  awkward  lopes 
across  the  field,  the  cow-bell  accompanying  his  steps 
with  doleful  notes. 

There  were  about  forty  young  people  at  the  party 
when  all  were  assembled.  They  came  mostly  in 
couples,  although  now  and  then  a  little  group  of 
girls  advanced  across  the  field,  and  young  men  came 
singly.  Barnabas  Thayer  came  alone,  and  rather 
late ;  Rebecca  had  come  some  time  before  with  one 
of  her  girl  mates  who  had  stopped  for  her.  Barna 
bas,  slender  and  handsome  in  his  best  suit,  advancing 
with  a  stern  and  almost  martial  air,  tried  not  to  see 
Charlotte  Barnard ;  but  it  was  as  if  her  face  were  the 
natural  focus  for  his  eyes,  which  they  could  not  es 
cape.  However,  Charlotte  was  not  talking  to  Thomas 
Payne ;  he  was  not  even  very  near  her.  He  was  al 
ready  in  the  top  of  a  cherry-tree  picking  busily. 
Barney  saw  his  trim  dark  head  and  his  bright  blue 
waistcoat  among  the  branches,  and  his  heart  gave  a 
guilty  throb  of  relief.  But  soon  he  noted  that  Char 
lotte  had  not  her  basket,  and  the  conviction  seized 
him  that  Thomas  had  it  and  was  filling  it  with  the 
very  choicest  cherries  from  the  topmost  branches,  as 
was  indeed  the  case. 

Charlotte  never  looked  at  Barney,  although  she 
knew  well  when  he  came.  She  stood  smiling  be 
side  another  girl,  her  smooth  fair  hair  gleaming  in 
the  sun,  her  neck  showing  pink  through  her  embroid 
ered  lace  kerchief,  and  her  gleaming  head  and  her 
neck  seemed  to  survey  Barney  as  consciously  as  her 


131 


face.  Sudd  'y  the  fierceness  of  the  instinct  of  pos 
session  seizeu  him  ;  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was 
his  wife's  neck ;  no  one  else  should  see  it.  He  felt 
like  tearing  off  his  own  coat  and  covering  her  with 
rude  force.  It  made  no  difference  to  him  that  nearly 
every  other  girl  there,  his  sister  among  the  rest,  wore 
her  neck  uncovered  by  even  a  kerchief;  he  felt  that 
Charlotte  should  not  have  done  so.  The  other  young 
men  were  swarming  up  the  trees  with  the  girls'  bas 
kets,  but  he  stood  aloof  with  his  forehead  knitted ; 
it  was  as  if  all  his  reason  had  deserted  him.  All  at 
once  there  was  a  rustle  at  his  side,  and  Rose  Berry 
touched  him  on  the  arm  ;  he  started,  and  looked 
down  into  her  softly  glowing  little  face. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are !"  said  she,  and  her  voice  had 
adoring  cadences. 

Barney  nodded. 

"  I  was  afrajd  you  weren't  coming,"  said  she,  and 
she  panted  softly  through  her  red  parted  lips. 

Rose's  crisp  pink  muslin  gown  flared  scalloping 
around  her  like  the  pink  petals  of  a  hollyhock ;  her 
slender  white  arms  showed  through  the  thin  sleeves. 

£3 

Barney  could  not  look  away  from  her  wide-open,  un 
faltering  blue  eyes,  which  suddenly  displayed  to  him 
strange  depths.  Charlotte,  during  all  his  courtship, 
had  never  looked  up  in  his  face  like  that.  He  could 
not  himself  have  told  why  ;  but  Charlotte  had  never 
for  one  moment  lost  sight  of  the  individual,  and  the 
respect  due  him,  in  her  lover.  Rose,  in  the  heart  of 
New  England,  bred  after  the  precepts  of  orthodoxy, 


132 


was  a  pagan,  and  she  worshipped  Love  himself.  Bar 
ney  was  simply  the  statue  that  represented  the  divin 
ity  ;  another  might  have  done  as  well  had  the  sculpt 
ure  been  as  fine. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  coining,"  Barney  said,  slowly, 
and  his  voice  sounded  odd  to  himself. 

"  I  know  you  did,  but  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't." 

Rose  still  held  her  basket.  Barney  reached  out 
for  it.  "  Let  me  get  some  cherries  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  hadn't  better,"  Rose  returned, 
holding  the  basket  firmly. 

«  Why  not  ?" 

"  I'm — afraid  Charlotte  won't  like  it,"  Rose  said. 
Her  face,  upturned  to  Barney,  was  full  of  pitiful  seri 
ousness,  like  a  child's. 

"  Give  me  the  basket,"  demanded  Barney,  and  she 
yielded.  She  stood  watching  him  as  he  climbed  the 
nearest  tree ;  then  she  turned  and  met  Charlotte's 
stern  eyes  full  upon  her.  Rose  went  under  the  tree 
herself,  pulled  down  a  low  branch,  and  began  to  eat; 
several  other  girls  were  doing  the  same.  Thomas 
Payne  passed  the  tree,  bearing  carefully  Charlotte's 
little  basket  heaped  with  the  finest  cherries.  Rose 
tossed  her  head  defiantly.  "  She  needn't  say  any 
thing,"  she  thought. 

The  morning  advanced,  the  sun  stood  high,  and 
there  was  a  light  wind,  which  now  and  then  caused 
the  cherry-leaves  to  smite  the  faces  of  the  pickers. 
There  were  no  robins  in  the  trees  that  morning ; 
there  were  only  swift  whirs  of  little  wings  in  the 


133 


distance,  and  sweet  flurried  calls  which  were  scarce 
ly  noted  in  the  merry  clamor  of  the  young  men  and 
girls. 

Silas  Berry  stood  a  little  aloof,  leaning  on  a  stout 
cane,  looking  on  with  an  inscrutable  expression  on 
his  dry  old  face.  He  noted  everything ;  he  saw 
Rose  talking  to  Barney  ;  he  saw  his  son  William 
eating  cherries  with  Rebecca  Thayer  out  of  one  bas 
ket  ;  but  his  expression  never  changed.  The  pre 
dominant  trait  in  his  whole  character  had  seemed  to 
mould  his  face  to  itself  unchangeably,  as  the  face  of 
a  hunting-dog  is  moulded  to  his  speed  and  watch 
fulness. 

"  Don't  Mr.  Berry  look  just  like  an  old  miser  ?"  a 
girl  whispered  to  Rebecca  Thayer ;  then  she  started 
and  blushed  confusedly,  for  she  remembered  sud 
denly  that  William  Berry  was  said  to  be  waiting 
upon  Rebecca,  and  she  also  remembered  that  Char 
lotte  Barnard,  who  was  within  hearing  distance,  was 
his  niece. 

Rebecca  blushed,  too.  "  I  never  thought  of  it," 
she  said,  in  a  constrained  voice. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  he  does,"  apologized  the 
girl.  "  I  suppose  I  thought  of  it  because  he's  thin. 
I  always  had  an  idea  that  a  miser  was  thin."  Then 
she  slipped  away,  and  presently  whispered  to  another 
girl  what  a  mistaken  speech  she  had  made,  and  they 
put  their  heads  together  with  soft,  averted  giggles. 

The  girls  had  brought  packages  of  luncheon  in 
their  baskets,  which  they  had  removed  to  make  space 


134 


for  the  cherries,  and  left  with  Mrs.  Berry  in  the  tav 
ern.  At  noon  they  sent  the  young  men  for  them, 
and  prepared  to  have  dinner  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  trees  where  they  had  been  picking,  where  the 
ground  was  clean.  William  and  Rose  also  went  up 
to  the  tavern,  and  Rose  beckoned  to  Barney  as  she 
passed  him.  "  Don't  you  want  to  come  ?"  she  whis 
pered,  as  he  followed  hesitatingly  ;  "  there's  some 
thing  to  carry." 

When  the  party  returned,  Mrs.  Berry  was  with 
them,  and  she  and  Rose  bore  between  them  a  small 
tub  of  freshly-fried  hot  doughnuts.  Mrs.  Berry  had 
utterly  refused  to  trust  it  to  the  young  men.  "  I 
know  better  than  to  let  you  have  it,"  she  said,  laugh 
ing.  "  You'd  eat  all  the  way  there,  and  there  wouldn't 
be  enough  left  to  go  round.  Me  and  Rose  will  carry 
it ;  it  ain't  very  heavy."  William  and  Barney  each 
bore  two  great  jugs  of  molasses -and -water  spiced 
with  ginger. 

Silas  pulled  himself  up  stiffly  when  he  saw  them 
coming ;  he  had  been  sitting  upon  the  peaked  rock 
whereon  Ezra  Ray  had  kept  vigil  with  the  cow-bell. 
Full  of  anxiety  had  he  been  all  day  lest  they  should 
pick  from  any  except  the  four  trees  which  he  had  set 
apart  for  them,  and  his  anxiety  was  greater  since  he 
knew  that  the  best  cherries  were  not  on  those  four 
trees.  Silas  sidled  painfully  towards  his  wife  and 
daughter ;  he  peered  over  into  the  tub,  but  they 
swung  it  remorselessly  past  him,  even  knocking  his 
shin  with  its  iron-bound  side. 


135 


"  What  you  got  there  ?"  he  demanded,  huskily. 

"  Don't  you  say  one  word,"  returned  his  wife,  with 
a  fierce  shake  of  her  head  at  him. 

"  What's  in  them  jugs  ?" 

"  It's  nothing  but  sweetened  water.  Don't,  fa 
ther,"  pleaded  Rose  under  her  breath,  her  pretty 
face  flaming. 

Her  mother  scowled  indomitably  at  Silas  tagging 
threateningly  at  her  elbow.  "  Don't  you  say  one 
word,"  she  whispered  again. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to — give  'em — " 

"  Don't  you  speak,"  she  returned,  hissing  out  the 

"8." 

Silas  said  no  more.  lie  followed  on,  and  watched 
the  doughnuts  being  distributed  to  the  merry  party 
seated  in  a  great  ring  like  a  very  garland  of  youth 
under  his  trees ;  he  saw  them  drink  his  sweetened 
water. 

"  Don't  you  want  some  ?"  asked  his  wife's  defi 
antly  pleasant  voice  in  his  car. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  none,"  he  returned. 

Finally,  long  before  they  had  finished  eating,  he 
went  home  to  the  tavern.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
house.  He  stole  cautiously  into  the  pantry,  and 
there  was  a  reserve  of  doughnuts  in  a  large  milk- 
pan  sitting  before  the  window.  Silas  crooked  his 
old  arm  around  the  pan,  carried  it  painfully  across 
the  great  kitchen  and  the  entry  into  the  best  room, 
and  pushed  it  far  under  the  bureau.  Then  he  re 
turned,  and  concealed  the  molasses-jug  in  the  brick 


136 


oven.  He  stood  for  a  minute  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  floor,  chuckling  and  nodding  as  if  to  the 
familiar  and  confidential  spirit  of  his  own  greed ; 
then  he  went  out,  and  a  short  way  down  the  road  to 
the  cottage  house  where  old  Hiram  Baxter  lived  and 
kept  a  little  shoemaker's  shop  in  the  L.  He  entered, 
and  sat  down  in  the  little  leather-reeking  place  with 
Hiram,  and  was  safe  and  removed  from  inquiry  when 
Mrs.  Berry  returned  to  the  tavern  for  the  remaining 
doughnuts  and  to  mix  more  sweetened  water.  The 
doughnuts  could  not  be  found,  but  she  carried  a  pail 
across  to  the  store,  got  more  molasses  from  the  bar 
rel,  and  so  in  one  point  outwitted  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  famous  for  her  rich  doughnuts, 
and  the  first  supply  had  been  quite  exhausted.  Will- 
iam  went  up  to  her  at  once  when  she  returned  to  the 
party.  "  Where's  the  rest  of  the  doughnuts  ?"  he 
whispered. 

"  Your  father's  hid  'em,"  she  whispered  back. 
"  Hush,  don't  say  anything." 

William  scowled  and  made  an  exclamation.  "  The 
old—" 

"  Hush  !"  whispered  his  mother  again  ;  "  go  up  to 
the  house  and  get  the  sweetened  water.  I've  mixed 
another  jug." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  demanded  William. 

"  I  dunno.     He  ain't  to  the  store." 

William  strode  off  across  the  field,  and  he  searched 
through  the  house  with  an  angry  stamping  and  bang 
ing  of  doors,  but  he  could  not  find  his  father  or  the 


137 


doughnuts.  "  Father  !"  he  called,  in  an  angry  shout, 
standing  in  the  doorway,  "  Father  !"  But  there  was 
no  reply,  and  he  went  back  to  the  others  with  the 
jug  of  sweetened  water.  Rebecca  watched  him  with 
furtive,  anxious  eyes,  but  he  avoided  looking  at  her. 
When  he  passed  her  a  tumbler  of  sweetened  water 
she  took  it  and  thanked  him  fervently,  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  heed  her  at  all. 

After  dinner  they  played  romping  games  under 
the  trees — hunt  the  slipper,  and  button,  and  Copen 
hagen.  Mrs.  Barnard  and  two  other  women  had 
come  over  to  see  the  festivity,  and  they  sat  at  a  lit 
tle  distance  with  Mrs.  Berry,  awkwardly  disposed 
against  the  trunks  of  trees,  with  their  feet  tucked 
under  their  skirts  to  keep  them  from  the  damp 
ground. 

Copenhagen  was  the  favorite  game  of  the  young 
people,  and  they  played  on  and  on  while  the  after 
noon  deepened.  Clinging  to  the  rope  they  formed  a 
struggling  ring,  looping  this  way  and  that  way  as  the 
pursuers  neared  them.  Their  laughter  and  gay  cries 
formed  charming  discords ;  their  radiant  faces  had  the 
likeness  of  one  family  of  flowers,  through  their  one 
expression.  The  wind  blew  harder;  the  girls'  muslin 
skirts  clung  to  their  limbs  as  they  moved  against  it, 
and  flew  out  around  their  heels  in  fluttering  ruffles. 
The  cherry  boughs  tossed  over  their  heads  full  of 
crisp  whispers  among  their  dark  leaves  and  red  fruit 
clusters.  Over  across  the  field,  under  the  low-swaying 
boughs,  showed  the  old  red  wall  of  the  tavern,  and 


138 


against  it  a  great  mass  of  blooming  phlox,  all  vagnc 
with  distance  like  purple  smoke.  Over  on  the  left, 
fence  rails  glistened  purple  in  the  sun  and  wind — a 
bluebird  sat  on  a  crumbling  post  and  sang.  But  the 
young  men  and  girls  playing  Copenhagen  saw  and 
heard  nothing  of  these  things. 

They  heard  only  that  one  note  of  love  which  all 
unwittingly,  and  whether  they  would  or  not,  they  sang 
to  each  other  through  all  the  merry  game.  Charlotte 
heard  it  whether  she  would  or  not,  and  so  did  Bar 
ney,  and  it  produced  in  them  as  in  the  others  a  reck 
less  exhilaration  in  spite  of  their  sadness.  William 
Berry  forgot  all  his  mortification  and  annoyance  as 
he  caught  Rebecca's  warm  fingers  on  the  rope  and 
bent  over  her  red,  averted  cheek.  Barney,  when  he 
had  grasped  Rose's  hands,  which  had  fairly  swung 
the  rope  his  way,  kissed  her  with  an  ardor  which  had 
in  it  a  curious,  fierce  joy,  because  at  that  moment  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Thomas  Payne's  handsome,  auda 
cious  face  meeting  Charlotte's. 

Barney  had  not  wished  to  play,  but  he  played  with 
zeal,  only  he  never  seemed  to  see  Charlotte's  fingers 
on  the  rope,  and  Charlotte  never  saw  his.  The  girls' 
cheeks  flushed  deeper,  their  smooth  locks  became 
roughened.  The  laughter  waxed  louder  and  longer  ; 
the  matrons  looking  on  doubled  their  broad  backs 
with  responsive  merriment.  It  became  like  a  little 
bacchanalian  rout  in  a  New  England  field  on  a  sum 
mer  afternoon,  but  they  did  not  know  it  in  their  sim 
ple  hearts. 


139 


At  six  o'clock  the  mist  began  to  rise,  the  sunlight 
streamed  through  the  trees  in  slanting  golden  shafts, 
long  drawn  out  like  organ  chords.  The  young  peo 
ple  gathered  up  their  pails  and  baskets  and  went 
home,  flocking  down  the  road  together,  calling  back 
farewells  to  Rose  and  William  and  their  mother,  who 
stood  in  front  of  the  tavern  watching  them  out  of  sight. 

They  were  not  quite  out  of  sight  when  they  came 
to  Hiram  Baxter's  little  house,  and  Silas  Berry 
emerged  from  the  shop  door.  "  Hullo !"  he  cried 
out,  and  they  all  stopped,  smiling  at  him  with  a  cor 
diality  which  had  in  it  a  savor  of  apology.  Indeed, 
Thomas  Payne  had  just  remarked,  with  a  hearty  cho 
rus  of  assents,  that  he  guessed  the  old  man  wasn't 
so  bad  after  all. 

Silas  advanced  towards  them  ;  he  also  was  smiling. 
lie  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  drew  out  a 
roll  of  paper  which  he  shook  out  with  trembling  fin 
gers.  He  stepped  close  to  Thomas  Payne  and  ex 
tended  it. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  young  man. 

Silas  smiled  up  in  his  face  with  the  ingenuous 
smile  of  a  child. 

"  What  is  it?"  Thomas  Payne  asked  again. 

The  others  crowded  around. 

"  It's  nothin'  but  the  bill,"  replied  Silas,  in  a  wheed 
ling  whisper.  His  dry  old  face  turned  red,  his  smile 
deepened. 

"  The  bill  for  what  ?"  demanded  Thomas  Payne, 
and  he  seized  the  paper. 


140 


"  For  the  cherries  you  eat,"  replied  Silas.  "  I've 
always  been  in  the  habit  of  chargin'  more,  but  I've 
took  off  a  leetle  this  time."  His  voice  had  a  ring 
of  challenge,  his  eyes  were  sharp,  while  his  mouth 
smiled. 

Thomas  Payne  scowled  over  the  bill.  The  other 
young  men  peered  at  it  over  his  shoulder,  and  re 
peated  the  amount  with  whistles  and  half-laughs  of 
scorn  and  anger.  The  girls  ejaculated  to  each  other 
in  whispers.  Silas  stood  impervious,  waiting. 

The  young  men  whipped  out  their  purses  without 
a  word,  but  Thomas  motioned  them  back.  "  I'll  pay, 
and  we'll  settle  afterwards.  We  can't  divide  up  here," 
he  said,  and  he  crammed  some  money  hard  in  Silas's 
eagerly  outstretched  hand.  "  Thank  you  for  your 
hospitality,  Mr.  Berry,"  said  Thomas  Payne,  his  face 
all  flaming  and  his  eyes  flashing,  but  his  voice  quite 
steady.  "  I  hope  you'll  have  as  good  luck  selling 
your  cherries  next  year." 

There  was  a  little  exulting  titter  over  the  sarcasm 
among  the  girls,  in  which  Rebecca  did  not  join  ;  then 
the  party  kept  on.  The  indignant  clamor  waxed  loud 
in  a  moment ;  they  scarcely  waited  for  the  old  man's 
back  to  be  turned  on  his  return  to  the  tavern. 

But  the  young  people,  crying  out  all  together  against 
this  last  unparalleled  meanness,  had  not  reached  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  where  some  of  them  separated,  when 
they  heard  the  quick  pound  of  running  feet  behind 
them  and  a  hoarse  voice  calling  on  Thomas  Payne  to 
stop.  They  all  turned,  and  William  came  up,  pale 


141 


and  breathing  hard.  "  What  did  you  pay  him  ?"  he 
asked  of  Thomas  Payne. 

"  See  here,  William,  we  all  know  you  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it,"  Thomas  cried  out. 

"  What  did  you  pay  him?"  William  repeated,  in  a 
stern  gasp. 

"  It's  all  right." 

"  You  tell  me  what  you  paid  him." 

Thomas  Payne  blushed  all  over  his  handsome  boy 
ish  face.  He  half  whispered  the  amount  to  William, 
although  the  others  knew  it  as  well  as  he. 

William  pulled  out  his  purse,  and  counted  out 
some  money  with  trembling  fingers.  "  Take  it,  for 
God's  sake  !"  said  he,  and  Thomas  Payne  took  it. 
"  We  all  know  that  you  knew  nothing  about  it,"  he 
said  again.  The  others  chimed  in  with  eager  assent, 
but  William  gave  his  head  a  shake,  as  if  he  shook 
off  water,  and  broke  away  from  them  all,  and  pelted 
up  the  hill  with  his  heart  so  bitterly  sore  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  trod  on  it  at  every  step. 

A  voice  was  crying  out  behind  him,  but  he  never 
heeded.  There  were  light,  hurrying  steps  after  him, 
and  a  soft  flutter  of  girlish  skirts,  but  he  never  looked 
away  from  his  own  self  until  Rebecca  touched  his 
arm.  Then  he  looked  around  with  a  start  and  a 
great  blush,  and  jerked  his  arm  away. 

But  Rebecca  followed  him  up  quite  boldly,  and 
caught  his  arm  again,  and  looked  up  in  his  face. 
"  Don't  you  feel  bad,"  said  she ;  "  don't  you  feel 
bad.  You  aren't  to  blame." 


142 


"  Isn't  he  my  father  ?" 

"  You  aren't  to  blame  for  that." 

"  Disgrace  comes  without  blame,"  said  William, 
and  he  moved  on. 

Rebecca  kept  close  to  his  side,  clinging  to  his  arm. 
"  It's  your  father's  way,"  said  she.  "  He's  honest, 
anyway.  Nobody  can  say  he  isn't  honest." 

"  It  depends  upon  what  you  call  honest,"  William 
said,  bitterly.  "You'd  better  run  back,  Rebecca. 
You  don't  want  them  to  think  you're  going  with  me, 
and  they  will.  I'm  disgraced,  and  so  is  Rose.  You'd 
better  run  back." 

Rebecca  stopped,  and  he  did  also.  She  looked  up 
in  his  face;  her  mouth  was  quivering  with  a  kind  of 
helpless  shame,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  womanly 
courage  and  steadfastness.  "  William,"  said  she,  "  I 
ran  away  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  them  all  to  comfort 
you.  They  saw  me,  and  they  can  see  me  now,  but  I 
don't  care.  And  I  don't  care  if  you  see  me ;  I  al 
ways  have  cared,  but  I  don't  now.  I  have  always 
been  terribly  afraid  lest  you  should  think  I  was  run 
ning  after  you,  but  I  ain't  afraid  now.  Don't  you 
feel  bad,  William.  That's  all  I  care  about.  Don't 
you  feel  bad ;  nobody  is  going  to  think  any  less  of 
you.  I  don't;  I  think  more." 

William  looked  down  at  her ;  there  was  a  hesitat 
ing  appeal  in  his  face,  as  in  that  of  a  hurt  child. 
Suddenly  Rebecca  raised  both  her  arms  and  put 
them  around  his  neck;  he  leaned  his  cheek  down 
against  her  soft  hair.  "Poor  William,"  she  wins- 


143 


pcrcd,  as  if  he  had  been  her  child  instead  of  her 
lover. 

A  girl  in  the  merry  party  speeding  along  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  glanced  around  just  then ;  she  turned 
again,  blushing  hotly,  and  touched  a  girl  near  her, 
who  also  glanced  around.  Then  their  two  blushing 
faces  confronted  each  other  with  significant  half- 
shamed  smiles  of  innocent  young  girlhood. 

They  locked  arms,  and  whispered  as  they  went 
on.  "  Did  you  see  ?"  "  Yes."  «  His  head «"  "  Yes." 
"  Her  arms  ?"  "  Yes."  Neither  had  ever  had  a  lover. 

But  the  two  lovers  at  the  top  of  the  hill  paid  no 
heed.  The  party  were  all  out  of  sight  when  they 
went  slowly  down  in  the  gathering  twilight.  William 
left  Rebecca  when  they  came  opposite  her  house. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WHEN  Rebecca  entered  the  house,  her  mother  was 
standing  over  the  stove,  making  milk-toast  for  sup 
per.  The  boiling  milk  steamed  up  fiercely  in  her 
face.  "  What  makes  you  so  long  behind  the  others  ?" 
she  demanded,  without  turning,  stirring  the  milk  as 
she  spoke. 

"I  guess  I  ain't  much,  am  I?"  Rebecca  said,  eva 
sively.  She  tried  to  make  her  voice  sound  as  it  usu 
ally  did,  but  she  could  not.  It  broke  and  took  on 
faltering  cadences,  as  if  she  were  intoxicated  with 
some  subtle  wine  of  the  spirit. 

Her  mother  looked  around  at  her.  Rebecca's  face 
was  full  of  a  strange  radiance  which  she  could  not 
subdue  before  her  mother's  hard,  inquiring  gaze.  Her 
cheeks  burned  with  splendid  color,  her  lips  trembled 
into  smiles  in  spite  of  herself,  her  eyes  were  like 
dark  fires,  shifting  before  her  mother's,  but  not  pal 
ing. 

"  Ephraim  see  'em  all  go  by  half  an  hour  ago," 
said  her  mother. 

Rebecca  made  no  reply. 

"  If,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  stayed  behind  to  see 
William  Berry,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  once  for  all : 
you  needn't  do  it  again." 


145 


"  I  had  to  see  him  about  something,"  Rebecca  fal 
tered. 

"  Well,  you  nee'dn't  see  him  again  about  anything. 
You  might  jest  as  well  understand  it  first  as  last :  if 
you've  got  any  idea  of  havin'  William  Berry,  you've 
got  to  give  it  up." 

"  Mother,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean  !"  Re 
becca  cried  out,  blushing. 

"  Look  'round  here  at  me !"  her  mother  ordered, 
suddenly. 

"Don't,  mother." 

"  Look  at  me  !" 

Rebecca  lifted  her  face  perforce,  and  her  mother 
eyed  her  pitilessly.  "  You  ain't  been  tellin'  of  him 
you'd  have  him,  now  ?"  said  she.  "Why  don't  you 
speak  ?" 

«  Not— just." 

"  Then  you  needn't." 

"  Mother !" 

"  You  needn't  talk.  You  can  jest  make  up  your 
mind  to  it.  You  ain't  goin'  to  marry  William  Berry. 
Your  brother  has  had  enough  to  do  with  that  fam- 
ily." 

"  Mother,  you  won't  stop  my  marrying  William 
because  Barney  won't  marry  his  cousin  Charlotte  ? 
There  ain't  any  sense  in  that." 

"  I've  got  my  reasons,  an'  that's  enough  for  you," 
said  Deborah.  "  You  ain't  goin'  to  marry  William 
Berry." 

"  I  am,  if  you  haven't  got  any  better  reason  than 
10 


146 


that.  I  won't  stand  it,  mother ;  it  ain't  right !"  Re 
becca  cried  out. 

"  Then,"  said  Deborah,  and  as  she  spoke  she  began 
spooning  out  the  toast  gravy  into  a  bowl  with  a  cu 
rious  stiff  turn  of  her  wrist  and  a  superfluous  vigor 
of  muscle,  as  if  it  were  molten  lead  instead  of  milk; 
and,  indeed,  she  might,  from  the  look  in  her  face, 
have  been  one  of  her  female  ancestors  in  the  times 
of  the  French  and  Indian  wars,  casting  bullets  with 
the  yells  of  savages  in  her  ears — "  then,"  said  she, 
"  I  sha'n't  have  any  child  but  Ephraim  left,  that's 
all !" 

"  Mother,  don't !"  gasped  Rebecca. 

"  There's  another  thing :  if  you  marry  William 
Berry  against  your  parents'  wishes,  you  know  what 
you  have  to  expect.  You  remember  your  aunt  Re 
becca," 

Rebecca  twisted  her  whole  body  about  with  the 
despairing  motion  with  which  she  would  have  wrung 
her  hands,  flung  open  the  door,  and  ran  out  of  the 
room. 

Deborah  went  on  spooning  up  the  toast.  Ephraim 
had  come  in  just  as  she  spoke  last  to  Rebecca,  and 
he  stood  staring,  grinning  with  gaping  mouth. 

"  What's  Rebecca  done,  mother  ?"  he  asked,  plead 
ingly,  catching  hold  of  his  mother's  dress. 

"Nothin'  for  you  to  know.  Go  an'  wash  your 
face  an'  hands,  an'  come  in  to  supper." 

"  Mother,  what's  she  done  ?"  Ephraim?s  pleading 
voice  lengthened  into  a  whine.  He  took  more  liber- 


147 


tics  with  his  mother  than  any  one  else  dared;  he  even 
jerked  her  dress  now  by  way  of  enforcing  an  answer. 
But  she  grasped  his  arm  so  vigorously  that  he  cried 
out.  "  Go  out  to  the  pump,  an'  wash  your  face  an* 
hands,"  she  repeated,  and  Ephraim  made  a  little  in 
voluntary  run  to  the  door. 

As  he  went  out  he  rolled  his  eyes  over  his  shoul 
der  at  his  mother  with  tragic  surprise  and  reproach, 
but  she  paid  no  attention.  When  he  came  in  she 
ignored  the  great  painful  sigh  which  he  heaved  and 
the  podgy  hand  clapped  ostentatiously  over  his  left 
side.  "  Draw  your  chair  up,"  said  she. 

"  I  dunno  as  I  want  any  supper.  I've  got  a  pain. 
Oh  dear!"  Ephraim  writhed,  with  attentive  eyes  upon 
his  mother ;  he  was  like  an  executioner  turning  an 
emotional  thumbscrew  on  her.  But  Deborah  Thayer's 
emotions  sometimes  presented  steel  surfaces.  "  You 
can  have  a  pain,  then,"  said  she.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to 
let  you  go  to  ruin  because  you  ain't  well,  not  if  I 
know  it.  You've  got  to  mind,  sick  or  well,  an'  you 
might  jest  as  well  know  it.  I'll  have  one  child  obey 
me,  whether  or  no.  Set  up  to  the  table." 

Ephraim  drew  up  his  chair,  whimpering ;  but  he 
fell  to  on  the  milk-toast  with  ardor,  and  his  hand 
dropped  from  his  side.  He  had  eaten  half  a  plate 
ful  when  his  father  came  in.  Caleb  had  been  milk 
ing  ;  the  cows  had  been  refractory  as  he  drove  them 
from  pasture,  and  he  was  late. 

"  Supper's  been  ready  half  an  hour,"  his  wife  said, 
when  he  entered. 


148 


"  The  heifer  run  down  the  old  road  when  I  was 
a-drivin'  of  her  home,  an'  I  had  to  chase  her,"  Caleb 
returned,  meekly,  settling  down  in  his  arm-chair  at 
the  table. 

"I  guess  that  heifer  wouldn't  cut  up  so  every 
night  if  I  had  the  drivin'  of  her,"  remarked  Deb 
orah.  She  filled  a  plate  with  toast  and  passed  it 
over  to  Caleb. 

Caleb  set  it  before  him,  but  he  did  not  begin  to 
eat.  He  looked  at  Rebecca's  empty  place,  then  at 
his  wife's  face,  long  arid  pale  and  full  of  stern  ran 
cor,  behind  the  sugar-bowl  and  the  cream-pitcher. 

"Rebecca  got  home?"  he  ventured,  with  wary  eyes 
upon  her. 

"  Yes,  she's  got  home." 

Caleb  winked,  meekly.  "  Ain't  she  comin'  to  sup 
per  ?" 

"  I  dunno  whether  she  is  or  not." 

"  Does  she  know  it's  ready  ?"  Deborah  vouch 
safed  no  reply.  She  poured  out  the  tea. 

Caleb  grated  his  chair  suddenly.  "  I'll  jest  speak 
to  her,"  he  proclaimed,  courageously. 

"  She  knows  it's  ready.  You  set  still,"  said  Deb 
orah.  And  Caleb  drew  his  chair  close  again,  and 
loaded  his  knife  with  toast,  bringing  it  around  to  his 
mouth  with  a  dexterous  sidewise  motion. 

"  She  ain't  sick,  is  she  ?"  he  said,  presently,  with  a 
casual  air. 

"  No,  I  guess  she  ain't  sick." 

"  I  s'pose  she  eat  so  many  cherries  she  didn't  want 


149 


any  supper,"  Caleb  said,  chuckling  anxiously.  His 
wife  made  no  reply.  Ephraim  reached  over  slyly  for 
the  toast-spoon,  and  she  pushed  his  hand  back. 

"  You  can't  have  any  more,"  said  she. 

"  Can't  I  have  jest  a  little  more,  mother?" 

"  No,  you  can't." 

"  I  feel  faint  at  my  stomach,  mother." 

"  You  can  keep  on  feelin'  faint." 

" Can't  I  have  a  piece  of  pie,  mother?" 

"  You  can't  have  another  mouthful  of  anything  to 
eat  to-night." 

Ephraim  clapped  his  hand  to  his  side  .again  and 
sighed,  but  his  mother  took  no  notice. 

"  Have  you  got  a  pain,  sonny  ?"  asked  Caleb. 

"  Yes,  dreadful.     Oh  !" 

"  Hadn't  he  ought  to  have  somethin'  on  it  ?"  Caleb 
inquired,  looking  appealingly  at  Deborah. 

"  He  can  have  some  of  his  doctor's  medicine  if 
he  don't  feel  better,"  she  replied,  in  a  hard  voice. 
"  Set  your  chair  back  now,  Ephraim,  and  get  out 
your  catechism." 

"  I  don't  feel  fit  to,  mother,"  groaned  Ephraim. 

"  You  do  jest  as  I  tell  you,"  said  his  mother. 

And  Ephraim,  heaving  with  sighs,  muttering  an 
grily  far  under  his  breath  lest  his  mother  should 
hear,  pulled  his  chair  back  to  the  window,  and  got 
his  catechism  out  of  the  top  drawer  of  his  father's 
desk,  and  began  droning  out  in  his  weak,  sulky  voice 
the  first  question  therein :  "  What  is  the  chief  end 
of  man  ?" 


150 


"  Now  shut  the  book  and  answer  it,"  said  his 
mother,  and  Ephraim  obeyed. 

Ephraim  was  quite  conversant  with  the  first  three 
questions  and  their  answers,  after  that  his  memory 
began  to  weaken ;  either  he  was  a  naturally  dull 
scholar,  or  his  native  indolence  made  Lira  appear  so. 
He  had  been  drilled  nightly  upon  the  "Assembly's 
Catechism"  for  the  past  five  years,  and  had  had 
many  a  hard  bout  with  it  before  that  in  Lis  very  in 
fancy,  when  his  general  health  admitted — and  some 
times,  it  seemed  to  Ephraim,  when  it  had  not  ad 
mitted. 

Many  a  time  had  the  boy  panted  for  breath  when 
he  rehearsed  those  grandly  decisive,  stately  replies 
to  those  questions  of  all  ages,  but  his  mother  had 
been  obdurate.  He  could  not  understand  why,  but 
in  reality  Deborah  held  her  youngest  son,  wlio  was 
tlireatened  with  death  in  his  youth,  to  the  "  As 
sembly's  Catechism  "  as  a  means  of  filling  his  mind 
with  spiritual  wisdom,  and  fitting  him  for  that 
higher  state  to  which  he  might  soon  be  called. 
Ephraim  had  been  strictly  forbidden  to  attend  school 
—  beyond  reading  he  had  no  education ;  but  his 
mother  resolved  that  spiritual  education  he  should 
Lave,  whether  lie  would  or  not,  and  whether  the  doc 
tor  would  or  not.  So  Ephraim  laboriously  read  the 
Bible  through,  a  chapter  at  a  time,  and  lie  went, 
step  by  step,  through  the  wisdom  of  the  Divines  of 
Westminster.  No  matter  how  much  he  groaned  over 
it,  his  mother  was  pitiless.  Sometimes  Caleb  plucked 


151 


up  courage  and  interceded.  "I  don't  believe  lie  feels 
quite  ekal  to  learnin'  of  his  stint  to-night,"  he  would 
say,  and  then  his  eyes  would  fall  before  the  terrible 
stern  pathos  in  Deborah's,  as  she  would  reply  in  her 
deep  voice  :  "  If  he  can't  learn  nothin'  about  books, 
he's  got  to  learn  about  his  own  soul.  He's  got  to, 
whether  it  hurts  him  or  not.  I  shouldn't  think, 
knowin'  what  you  know,  you'd  say  anything,  Caleb 
Thayer." 

And  Caleb's  old  face  would  quiver  suddenly  like  a 
child's ;  he  would  rub  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  huddle  himself  into  his  arm-chair,  and  say 
no  more  ;  and  Deborah  would  sharply  order  Ephraim, 
spying  anxiously  over  his  catechism,  to  go  on  with 
the  next  question. 

It  was  nearly  dark  to-night  when  Ephraim  finished 
his  stint ;  he  was  slower  than  usual,  his  progress 
being  somewhat  hindered  by  the  surreptitious  eating 
of  a  hard  red  apple,  which  he  had  stowed  away  in 
his  jacket-pocket.  Hard  apples  were  strictly  forbid 
den  to  Ephraim  as  articles  of  diet,  and  to  eat  many 
during  the  season  required  diplomacy. 

The  boy's  jaws  worked  with  furious  zeal  over  the 
apple  during  his  mother's  temporary  absences  from 
the  room  on  household  tasks,  and  on  her  return  were 
mumbling  solemnly  and  innocently  the  precepts  of 
the  catechism,  after  a  spasmodic  swallowing.  His 
father  was  nodding  in  his  chair  and  saw  nothing,  and 
had  he  seen  would  not  have  betrayed  him.  After 
a  little  inefficient  remonstrance  on  his  own  account, 


152 


Caleb  always  subsided,  and  watched  anxiously  lest 
Deborah  should  discover  the  misdemeanor  and  de 
scend  upon  Ephraim. 

To-night,  after  the  task  was  finished,  Deborah  sent 
Ephraim  stumbling  out  of  the  room  to  bed,  mutter 
ing  remonstrances,  his  eyes  as  wild  and  restless  as  a 
cat's,  his  ears  full  of  the  nocturnal  shouts  of  his  play 
fellows  that  came  through  the  open  windows. 

"Mother,  can't  I  go  out  an'  play  ball  a  little  while?" 
sounded  in  a  long  wail  from  the  dusk  outside  the 
door. 

"  You  go  to  bed,"  answered  his  mother.  Then  the 
slamming  of  a  door  shook  the  house. 

"  If  he  wa'n't  sick,  I'd  whip  him,"  said  Deborah, 
between  tight  lips ;  the  spiritual  whip  which  Ephraim 
held  by  right  of  his  illness  over  her  seemed  to  sing 
past  her  ears.  She  shook  Caleb  with  the  force  with 
which  she  might  have  shaken  Ephrairn.  "  You'd 
better  get  up  an'  go  to  bed  now,  instead  of  sleepin' 
in  your  chair,"  she  said,  imperatively ;  and  Caleb 
obeyed,  staggering,  half-dazed,  across  the  floor  into 
the  bedroom.  Deborah  was  only  a  few  years  younger 
than  her  husband,  but  she  had  retained  her  youthful 
vigor  in  much  greater  degree.  She  never  felt  the 
drowsiness  of  age  stealing  over  her  at  nightfall.  In 
deed,  oftentimes  her  senses  seemed  to  gain  in  alert 
ness  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  many  a  night  she  was 
up  and  at  work  long  after  all  the  other  members  of 
her  family  were  in  bed.  There  came  at  such  times 
to  Deborah  Thayer  a  certain  peace  and  triumphant 


153 


security,  when  all  the  other  wills  over  which  her  own 
held  contested  sway  were  lulled  to  sleep,  and  she 
could  concentrate  all  her  energies  upon  her  work. 
Many  a  long  task  of  needle-work  had  she  done  in  the 
silence  of  the  night,  by  her  dim  oil  lamp ;  in  years 
past  she  had  spun  and  woven,  and  there  was  in  a 
clothes-press  up-stairs  a  wonderful  coverlid  in  an  in 
tricate  pattern  of  blue  and  white,  and  not  a  thread  of 
it  woven  by  the  light  of  the  sun. 

None  of  the  neighbors  knew  why  Deborah  Thayer 
worked  so  much  at  night;  they  attributed  it  to  her 
tireless  industry.  "  The  days  waVt  never  long 
enough  for  Deborah  Thayer,"  they  said — and  she  did 
not  know  why  herself. 

There  was  deep  in  her  heart  a  plan  for  the  final 
disposition  of  these  nightly  achievements,  but  she 
confided  it  to  no  one,  not  even  to  Rebecca.  The 
blue -and -white  coverlid,  many  a  daintily  stitched 
linen  garment  and  lace -edged  pillow-slip  she  des 
tined  for  Rebecca  when  she  should  be  wed,  although 
she  frowned  on  Rebecca's  lover  and  spoke  harshly  to 
her  of  marriage.  To-night,  while  Rebecca  lay  sob 
bing  in  her  little  bedroom,  the  mother  knitted  assid 
uously  until  nearly  midnight  upon  a  wide  linen  lace 
with  which  to  trim  dimity  curtains  for  the  daughter's 
bridal  bedstead. 

Deborah  needed  no  lamplight  for  this  knitting- 
work  ;  she  was  so  familiar  with  it,  having  knitted 
yards  with  her  thoughts  elsewhere,  that  she  could 
knit  without  seeing  her  needles. 


154 


So  she  sat  in  the  deepening  dusk  and  knitted,  and 
heard  the  laughter  and  shouts  of  the  boys  at  play  a 
little  way  down  the  road  with  a  deeper  pang  than 
Ephraim  had  ever  felt  over  his  own  deprivation. 

She  was  glad  when  the  gay  hubbub  ceased  and 
the  boys  were  haled  into  bed.  Shortly  afterwards 
she  heard  out  in  the  road  a  quick,  manly  tread  and  a 
merry  whistle.  She  did  not  know  the  tune,  but  only 
one  young  man  in  Pembroke  could  whistle  like  that, 
"  It's  Thomas  Payne  goin'  up  to  see  Charlotte  Bar 
nard,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  bitter  purse  of  her 
lips  in  the  dark.  That  merry  whistler,  passing  her 
poor  cast-out  son  in  his  lonely,  half-furnished  house, 
whose  dark,  shadowy  walls  she  could  see  across  the 
field,  srnote  her  as  sorely  as  he  smote  him.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  hear  that  flute -like 
melody  even  as  far  as  Charlotte's  door.  In  spite  of 
her  stern  resolution  to  be  just,  a  great  gust  of  wrath 
shook  her.  "  Lettin'  of  him  come  courtin'  her  when 
it  ain't  six  weeks  since  Barney  went,"  she  said,  quite 
out  loud,  and  knitted  fiercely. 

But  poor  Thomas  Payne,  striding  with  his  harm 
less  swagger  up  the  hill,  whistling  as  loud  as  might 
be  one  of  his  college  airs,  need  not,  although  she 
knew  it  not  and  he  knew  it  not  himself,  have  dis 
turbed  her  peace  of  mind. 

Charlotte,  at  the  cherry  party,  had  asked  him,  with 
a  certain  dignified  shyness,  if  he  could  come  up  to 
her  house  that  evening,  and  lie  had  responded  with 
alacrity.  "  Why,  of  course  I  can,"  he  cried,  blush- 


"c" 


155 


ing  joyfully  all  over  his  handsome  face — "  of  course 
I  can,  Charlotte  !"  And  he  tried  to  catch  one  of  her 
hands  hanging  in  the  folds  of  her  purple  dress,  but 
she  drew  it  away. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  a  few  minutes  about  some 
thing,"  she  said,  soberly;  and  then  she  pressed  for 
ward  to  speak  to  another  girl,  and  he  could  not  get 
another  word  with  her  about  it. 

Charlotte,  after  she  got  home  from  the  party,  had 
changed  her  pretty  new  gown  for  her  every-day  one 
of  mottled  brown  calico  set  with  a  little  green  sprig, 
and  had  helped  her  mother  get  supper. 

Cephas,  however,  was  late,  and  did  not  come  home 
until  just  before  Thomas  Payne  arrived.  Sarah  had 
begun  to  worry.  "  I  don't  see  where  your  father  is," 
she  kept  saying  to  Charlotte.  When  she  heard  his 
shuffling  step  on  the  door-stone  she  started  as  if  he 
had  been  her  lover.  When  he  came  in  she  scruti 
nized  him  anxiously,  to  see  if  he  looked  ill  or  dis 
turbed.  Sarah  Barnard,  during  all  absences  of  her 
family,  dug  busily  at  imaginary  pitfalls  for  them  ;  had 
they  all  existed  the  town  would  have  been  honey 
combed. 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  happened,  has  there,  Cephas?" 
she  said. 

"  I  dunno  of  anythin'  that's  happened." 

"  I  got  kind  of  worried.  I  didn't  know  where  you 
was."  Sarah  had  an  air  of  apologizing  for  her  worry. 
Cephas  made  no  reply  ;  he  did  not  say  where  he  had 
been,  nor  account  for  his  tardiness ;  he  did  not  look 


156 


at  his  wife,  standing  before  him  with  her  pathetically 
inquiring  face.  He  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  table 
and  sat  down,  and  Charlotte  set  his  supper  before 
him.  It  was  a  plate  of  greens,  cold  boiled  dock,  and 
some  rye-and-Indian  bread.  Cephas  still  adhered  to 
his  vegetarian  diet,  although  he  pined  on  it,  and 
the  longing  for  the  flesh-pots  was  great  in  his  soul. 
However,  he  said  no  more  about  sorrel  pies,  for  the 
hardness  and  the  flavor  of  those  which  he  had  pre 
pared  had  overcome  even  his  zeal  of  invention.  He 
ate  of  them  manfully  twice;  then  he  ate  no  more, 
and  he  did  not  inquire  how  Sarah  disposed  of  them 
after  they  had  vainly  appeared  on  the  table  a  week. 
She,  with  no  pig  nor  hens  to  eat  them,  was  forced, 
with  many  misgivings  as  to  the  waste,  to  deposit 
them  in  the  fireplace. 

"  They  actually  made  good  kindlin'  wood,"  she 
told  her  sister  Sylvia.  "  Poor  Cephas,  he  didn't  have 
no  more  idea  than  a  baby  about  makin'  pies."  All 
Sarah's  ire  had  died  away;  to-night  she  set  a  large 
plump  apple-pie  slyly  on  the  table — an  apple-pie  with 
ample  allowance  of  lard  in  the  crust  thereof;  and  she 
felt  not  the  slightest  exultation,  only  honest  pleasure, 
when  she  saw,  without  seeming  to,  Cephas  cut  off  a 
goodly  wedge,  after  disposing  of  his  dock  greens. 

"  Poor  father,  I'm  real  glad  he's  tastin'  of  the  pie," 
she  whispered  to  Charlotte  in  the  pantry ;  "  greens 
ain't  very  fillin'." 

Charlotte  smiled,  absently.  Presently  she  slipped 
into  the  best  room  and  lighted  the  candles.  "  You 


157 


expectin'  of  anybody  to-night?"  her  mother  asked, 
when  she  came  out. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  somebody  might  come,"  Char 
lotte  replied,  evasively.  She  blushed  a  little  before 
her  mother's  significantly  smiling  face,  but  there  was 
none  of  the  shamed  delight  which  should  have  ac 
companied  the  blush.  She  looked  very  sober — almost 
stern. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  put  on  your  other  dress  again, 
then  ?"  asked  her  mother. 

"  No,  I  guess  this  '11  do." 

Cephas  ate  his  pie  in  silence — he  had  helped  him 
self  to  another  piece — but  he  heard  every  word. 
After  he  had  finished,  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for 
his  old  leather  purse,  and  counted  over  a  little  store 
of  money  on  his  knee. 

Charlotte  was  setting  away  the  dishes  in  the  pantry 
when  her  father  came  up  behind  her  and  crammed 
something  into  her  hand.  She  started..  "  What  is 
it?"  said  she. 

"  Look  and  see,"  said  Cephas. 

Charlotte  opened  her  hand,  and  saw  a  great  silver 
dollar.  "  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  like  to  buy  some- 
thin'  with  it,"  said  Cephas.  He  cleared  his  throat, 
and  went  out  through  the  kitchen  into  the  shed. 
Charlotte  was  too  amazed  to  thank  him ;  her  mother 
came  into  the  pantry.  "  What  did  he  give  you  ?" 
she  whispered. 

Charlotte  held  up  the  money.  "  Poor  father,"  said 
Sarah  Barnard,  "  he's  doin'  of  it  to  make  up.  He  was 


158 


dreadful  sorry  about  that  other,  an'  he's  tickled  'most 
to  death  now  he  thinks  you've  got  somebody  else, 
and  are  contented.  Poor  father,  he  ain't  got  much 
money,  either." 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  Charlotte  said,  her  steady  mouth 
quivering  downward  at  the  corners. 

"  You  keep  it.  He'd  feel  all  upset  if  you  didn't. 
You'll  find  it  come  handy.  I  know  you've  got  a 
good  many  things  now,  but  you  had  ought  to  have  a 
new  cape  come  fall ;  you  can't  come  out  bride  in  a 
muslin  one  when  snow  flies."  Sarah  cast  a  half-timid, 
half-shrewd  glance  at  Charlotte,  who  put  the  dollar 
in  her  pocket. 

"  A  green  satin  cape,  lined  and  wadded,  would  be 
handsome,"  pursued  her  mother. 

"  I  sha'n't  ever  come  out  bride,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  How  you  talk.     There,  he's  comin'  now  !" 

And,  indeed,  at  that  the  clang  of  the  knocker  sound 
ed  through  the  house.  Charlotte  took  off  her  apron 
and  started  to  answer  it,  but  her  mother  caught  her 
and  pinned  up  a  stray  lock  of  hair.  "  I  'most  wish 
you  had  put  on  your  other  dress  again,"  she  whis 
pered. 

Sarah  listened  with  her  ear  close  to  the  crack 
of  the  kitchen  door  when  her  daughter  opened  the 
outside  one.  She  heard  Thomas  Payne's  hearty 
greeting  and  Charlotte's  decorous  reply.  The  door 
of  the  front  room  shut,  then  she  set  the  kitchen 
door  ajar  softly,  but  she  could  hear  nothing  but  a 
vague  hum  of  voices  across  the  entry  ;  she  could  not 


159 


distinguish  a  word.  However,  it  was  as  well  that 
she  could  not,  for  her  heart  would  have  sunk,  as  did 
poor  Thomas  Payne's. 

Thomas,  with  his  thick  hair  brushed  into  a  shining- 
roll  above  his  fair  high  forehead,  in  his  best  flow 
ered  waistcoat  and  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  sat 
opposite  Charlotte,  his  two  nicely  booted  feet  toe 
ing  out  squarely  on  the  floor,  his  two  hands  on  his 
knees,  and  listened  to  what  she  had  to  say,  while 
his  boyish  face  changed  and  whitened.  Thomas 
was  older  than  Charlotte,  but  he  looked  younger. 
It  seemed,  too,  as  if  he  looked  younger  when  with 
her  than  at  other  times,  although  he  was  always  anx 
iously  steady  and  respectful,  and  lost  much  of  that 
youthful  dash  which  made  him  questioningly  ad 
mired  by  the  young  people  of  Pembroke. 
,  Charlotte  began  at  once  after  they  were  seated. 
Her  fair,  grave  face  colored,  her  voice  had  in  it  a 
solemn  embarrassment.  "  I  don't  know  but  you 
thought  I  was  doing  a  strange  thing  to  ask  you  to 
come  here  to-night,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  didn't;  I  didn't  think  so,  Charlotte," 
Thomas  declared,  warmly. 

"  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to.  I  felt  as  if  it  was  my 
duty  to,"  said  she.  She  cast  her  eyes  down.  Thomas 
waited,  looking  at  her  with  vague  alarm.  Somehow 
some  college  scrapes  of  his  flashed  into  his  head,  and 
he  had  a  bewildered  idea  that  she  had  found  them 
out  and  that  her  sweet  rigid  innocence  was  shocked, 
and  she  was  about  to  call  him  to  account. 


160 


But  Charlotte  continued,  raising  her  eyes,  and 
meeting  his  gravely  and  fairly  : 

"You've  been  coming  here  three  Sabbath  evenings 
running,  now,"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  have,  Charlotte." 

"  And  you  mean  to  keep  on  coming,  if  I  don't  say 
anything  to  hinder  it  ?" 

"  You  know  I  do,  Charlotte,"  replied  Thomas,  with 
ardent  eyes  upon  her  face. 

"  Then,"  said  Charlotte,  "  I  feel  as  if  it  was  my 
duty  to  say  this  to  you,  Thomas.  If  you  come  in 
any  other  way  than  as  a  friend,  if  you  come  on  any 
other  errand  than  friendship,  you  must  not  come 
here  any  more.  It  isn't  right  for  me  to  encourage 
you,  and  let  you  come  here  and  get  your  feelings 
enlisted.  If  you  come  here  occasionally  as  a  friend 
in  friendship  I  shall  be  happy  to  have  you,  but  you 
must  not  come  here  with  any  other  hopes  or  feel 
ings." 

Charlotte's  solemnly  stilted  words,  and  earnest, 
severe  face  chilled  the  young  man  opposite.  His 
face  sobered.  "  You  mean  that  you  can't  ever  think 
of  me  in  any  other  way  than  as  a  friend,"  he  said. 

Charlotte  nodded.  "  You  know  it  is  not  because 
there's  one  thing  against  you,  Thomas." 

"Then  it  is  Barney,  after  all." 

"  I  was  all  ready  to  marry  him  a  few  weeks  ago," 
Charlotte  said,  with  a  kind  of  dignified  reproach. 

Thomas  colored.  "  I  know  it,  Charlotte  ;  I  ought 
not  to  have  expected — I  suppose  you  couldn't  get 


161 


over  it  so  soon.  I  couldn't  if  I  had  been  in  your 
place,  and  been  ready  to  marry  anybody.  But  I  didn't 
know  about  girls  ;  I  didn't  know  but  they  were  dif 
ferent  ;  I  always  heard  they  got  over  things  quicker. 
I  ought  not  to  have  thought —  But,  oh,  Charlotte,  if 
I  wait,  if  you  have  a  little  more  time,  don't  you 
think  you  will  feel  different  about  it  2" 

Charlotte  shook  her  head. 

"  But  he  is  such  a  good-for-nothing  dog  to  treat 
you  the  way  he  does,  Charlotte !"  Thomas  cried  out, 
in  a  great  burst  of  wrath  and  jealous  love. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  like  that, 
Thomas  Payne,"  Charlotte  said,  sternly,  and  the 
young  man  drooped  before  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Charlotte,"  said  he.  "  I  sup 
pose  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  so,  if  you —  Oh, 
Charlotte,  then  you  don't  think  you  ever  can  get  over 
this  and  think  a  little  bit  of  me  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Charlotte,  in  a  steady  voice,  "  I 
don't  think  I  ever  can,  Thomas." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  I  am  trying  to  get  you  away 
from  any  other  fellow,  Charlotte — I  wouldn't  do  any 
thing  like  that;  but  if  he  won't —  Oh,  Charlotte, 
are  you  sure  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  can,"  repeated  Charlotte, 
monotonously,  looking  at  the  wall  past  Thomas. 

"  I've  always  thought  so  much  of  you,  Charlotte, 
though  I  never  told  you  so." 

"  You'd  better  not  now." 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to,  now.  I've  got  to.  Then  I'll 
11 


162 


never  say  another  word — I'll  go  away,  and  never  say 
another  word."  Thomas  got  up,  and  brought  his 
chair  close  to  Charlotte's.  "  Don't  move  away,"  he 
pleaded ;  "  let  me  sit  here  near  you  once — I  never  shall 
again.  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  Charlotte.  I  used  to 
look  across  at  you  sitting  in  the  meeting-house,  Sab 
bath  days,  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  think  you  were  the 
handsomest  girl  I  ever  saw.  Then  I  did  try  to  go 
with  you  once  before  I  went  to  college  ;  perhaps  you 
didn't  know  that  I  meant  anything,  but  I  did.  Bar 
ney  was  in  the  way  then  a  little,  but  I  didn't  think 
much  of  it.  I  didn't  know  that  he  really  meant  to 
go  with  you.  You  let  me  go  home  with  you  two  or 
three  times — perhaps  you  remember." 

Charlotte  nodded. 

"  I  never  forgot,"  said  Thomas  Payne.  "  Well, 
father  found  it  out,  and  he  had  a  talk  with  me.  He 
made  me  promise  to  wait  till  I  got  through  college  be 
fore  I  said  anything  to  you ;  he  was  doing  a  good 
deal  for  me,  you  know.  So  I  waited,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew,  when  I  came  home,  they  said  Barney 
Thayer  was  waiting  on  you,  and  I  thought  it  was  all 
settled  and  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  bear  it  like  a  man  and  make  the 
best  of  it,  and  I  did.  But  this  spring  when  I  was 
through  college,  and  that  happened  betwixt  you  and' 
Barney,  when  he — didn't  come  back  to  you,  and  you 
didn't  seem  to  mind  so  much,  I  couldn't  help  having  a 
little  hope.  I  waited  and  kept  thinking  he'd  make  up 
with  you,  but  he  didn't,  and  I  knew  how  determined 


163 


lie  was.  Then  finally  I  began  to  make  a  few  ad 
vances,  but — well,  it's  all  over  now,  Charlotte.  There's 
only  one  thing  I'd  like  to  ask :  if  I  hadn't  waited,  as 
I  promised  father,  would  it  have  made  any  difference  ? 
Did  you  always  like  Barney  Thayer?" 

"  Yes ;  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference," 
Charlotte  said.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Thomas  Payne  arose.  "Then  that  is  all,"  said  he. 
"  I  never  had  any  chance,  if  I  had  only  known.  I've 
got  nothing  more  to  say.  I  want  to  thank  you  for 
asking  me  to  come  here  to-night  and  telling  me.  It 
was  a  good  deal  kinder  than  to  let  me  keep  on  com 
ing.  That  would  have  been  rather  hard  on  a  fellow." 
Thomas  Payne  fairly  laughed,  although  his  hand 
some  face  was  white.  "  I  hope  it  will  all  come  right 
betwixt  you  and  Barney,  Charlotte,"  he  said,  "  and 
don't  you  worry  about  me,  I  shall  get  on.  I'll  own 
this  seems  a  little  harder  than  it  was  before,  but  I 
shall  get  on."  Thomas  brushed  his  bell  hat  care 
fully  with-  his  cambric  handkerchief,  and  stowed  it 
under  his  arm.  "  Good-bye,  Charlotte,"  said  he,  in 
his  old  gay  voice ;  "  when  you  ask  me,  I'll  come  and 
dance  at  your  wedding." 

Charlotte  got  up,  trembling.  Thomas  reached  out 
his  hand  and  touched  her  smooth  fair  head  softly. 
"  I  never  touched  you  nor  kissed  you,  except  in  games 
like  that  Copenhagen  to-day,"  said  he ;  "  but  I've 
thought  of  it  a  good  many  times." 

Charlotte  drew  back.  "  I  can't,  Thomas,"  she 
faltered.  She  could  not  herself  have  defined  her  rea- 


164 


son  for  refusing  her  cast-off  lover  tins  one  comfort, 
but  it  was  not  so  much  loyalty  as  the  fear  of  disloy 
alty  which  led  her  to  do  so.  In  spite  of  herself,  she 
saw  Barney  for  an  instant  beside  Thomas  to  his  dis 
advantage,  and  her  love  could  not  cover  him,  extend 
it  as  she  would.  The  conviction  was  strong  upon 
her  that  Thomas  was  the  better  man  of  the  two,  al 
though  she  did  not  love  him. 

"  All  right,"  said  Thomas,  "  I  ought  not  to  have 
asked  it  of  you,  Charlotte.  Good-bye." 

As  soon  as  Thomas  Payne  got  out  in  the  dark 
night  air,  and  the  door  had  shut  behind  him,  he  set 
up  his  merry  whistle.  Charlotte  stood  at  the  front 
window,  and  heard  it  from  far  down  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE  Sunday  evening,  about  four  months  after  the 
cherry  party,  Barnabas  Thayer  came  out  of  his  house 
and  strolled  slowly  across  the  road.  Then  he  paused, 
and  leaned  up  against  some  pasture  bars  and  looked 
around  him.  There  was  nobody  in  sight  on  the  road 
in  either  direction,  and  everything  was  very  still,  ex 
cept  for  the  vibrating  calls  of  the  hidden  insects  that 
come  to  their  flood-tide  of  life  in  early  autumn. 

Barnabas  listened  to  those  calls,  which  had  in 
them  a  certain  element  of  mystery,  as  have  all  things 
which  reach  only  one  sense.  They  were  in  their 
humble  way  the  voices  of  the  unseen,  and  as  he  lis 
tened  they  seemed  to  take  on  a  rhythmic  cadence. 
Presently  the  drone  of  multifold  vibrations  sounded 
in  his  ears  with  even  rise  and  fall,  like  the  mighty 
breathing  of  Nature  herself.  The  sun  was  low,  and 
the  sky  was  full  of  violet  clouds.  Barney  could  see 
outlined  faintly  against  them  the  gray  sweep  of  the 
roof  that  covered  Charlotte's  daily  life. 

Soon  the  bell  for  the  evening  meeting  began  to 
ring,  and  Barney  started.  People  might  soon  ap 
pear  on  their  way  to  meeting,  and  he  did  not  want 
to  see  them.  Barney  avoided  everybody  now  ;  he 
had  been  nowhere  since  the  cherry  party,  not  even 


166 


to  meeting.  He  led  the  life  of  a  hermit,  and  sel 
dom  met  his  kind  at  all,  except  at  the  store,  where 
he  went  to  buy  the  simple  materials  for  his  solitary 
meals. 

Barney  turned  aside  from  the  main  road  into  the 
old  untravelled  one  leading  past  Sylvia  Crane's  house. 
It  appeared  scarcely  more  than  a  lane  ;  the  old  wheel- 
ruts  were  hidden  between  green  weedy  ridges,  the 
bordering  stone-walls  looked  like  long  green  barrows, 
being  overgrown  with  poison  -  ivy  vines  and  rank 
shrubs.  For  a  long  way  there  was  no  house  except 
Sylvia  Crane's.  There  was  one  cellar  where  a  house 
had  stood  before  Barney  could  remember.  There 
were  a  few  old  blackened  chimney-bricks  still  there, 
the  step-stone  worn  by  dead  and  forgotten  feet,  and 
the  old  lilac-bushes  that  had  grown  against  the  front 
windows.  Two  poplar-trees,  too,  stood  where  the 
front  yard  had  met  the  road,  casting  long  shadows 
like  men.  Sylvia  Crane's  house  was  just  beyond, 
and  Barney  passed  it  with  a  furtive  anxious  glance, 
because  Charlotte's  aunt  lived  there.  He  saw  no 
body  at  the  windows,  but  the  guardian  -  stone  was 
quite  rolled  away  from  the  door,  so  Sylvia  was  at 
home. 

Barney  walked  a  little  way  beyond ;  then  he  sat 
down  on  the  stone-wall,  and  remained  there,  motion 
less.  He  heard  the  meeting-bell  farther  away,  then 
it  ceased.  The  wind  was  quite  crisp  and  cool,  and 
it  smote  his  back  from  the  northwest.  He  could 
smell  wild -grapes  and  the  pungent  odor  of  decay- 


167 


ing  leaves.  The  autumn  was  beginning,  and  over 
his  thoughts,  raised  like  a  ghost  from  the  ashes  of 
the  summer,  stole  a  vague  vision  of  the  winter.  He 
saw  for  a  second  the  driving  slant  of  the  snow-storm 
over  the  old  drifting  road,  he  saw  the  white  slant  of 
Sylvia's  house -roof  through  it.  And  at  the  same 
time  a  curious,  pleasant  desire,  which  might  be  prim 
itive  and  coeval  with  the  provident  passion  of  the 
squirrels  and  honey-bees,  thrilled  him.  Then  he  dis 
missed  it  bitterly.  What  need  of  winter-stores  and 
provisions  for  sweet  home-comfort  in  the  hearts  of 
freezing  storms  was  there  for  him  ?  What  did  he 
care  whether  or  not  he  laid  in  stores  of  hearth-wood, 
of  garden  produce,  of  apples,  just  for  himself  in  his 
miserable  solitude  ?  The  inborn  desire  of  Northern 
races  at  the  approach  of  the  sterile  winters,  contain 
ing,  as  do  all  desires  to  insure  their  fulfilment,  the 
elements  of  human  pleasure,  failed  suddenly  to  move 
him  when  he  remembered  that  his  human  life,  in 
one  sense,  was  over. 

Opposite  him  across  the  road,  in  an  old  orchard, 
was  a  tree  full  of  apples.  The  low  sun  struck  them, 
and  they  showed  spheres  of  rosy  orange,  as  brilliant 
as  Atalanta's  apples  of  gold,  against  the  background 
of  dark  violet  clouds.  Barney  looked  at  this  tree, 
which  was  glorified  for  the  time  almost  out  of  its 
common  meaning  as  a  tree,  as  he  might  have  looked 
at  a  gorgeous  procession  passing  before  him,  while 
his  mind  was  engrossed  with  his  own  misery,  seem 
ing  to  project  before  his  eyes  like  a  veil. 


168 


Presently  it  grew  dusky,  and  the  glowing  apples 
faded;  the  town-clock  struck  eight.  Barney  counted 
the  strokes  ;  then  he  arose  and  went  slowly  back.  He 
had  not  gone  far  when  he  saw  at  a  distance  down 
the  road  a  man  and  woman  strolling  slowly  towards 
him.  They  disappeared  suddenly,  and  he  thought 
they  had  turned  into  a  lane  which  opened  upon  the 
road  just  there.  lie  thought  to  himself,  and  with  no 
concern,  that  it  might  have  been  his  sister  Rebecca 
— something  about  the  woman's  gait  suggested  her — 
and  William  Berry.  lie  knew  that  William  was  not 
allowed  in  his  mother's  house,  and  that  he  and  Re 
becca  met  outside.  lie  looked  up  the  dusky  lane 
when  he  came  to  it,  but  he  saw  nobody.  • 

When  he  reached  Sylvia  Crane's  house  he  noticed 
that  the  front  door  was  open,  and  a  woman  stood 
there  in  a  dim  shaft  of  candle-light  which  streamed 
from  the  room  beyond.  He  started,  for  he  thought 
it  might  be  Charlotte  ;  then  he  saw  that  it  was  Sylvia 
Crane  leaning  out  towards  him,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hand. 

He  said  "Good-evening"  vaguely,  and  passed  on. 
Then  he  heard  a  cry  of  indistinct  words  behind  him, 
and  turned.  "  What  is  it  ?"  he  called.  But  still  he 
could  not  understand  what  she  said,  her  voice  was  so 
broken,  and  he  went  back. 

When  he  got  quite  close  to  the  gate  he  under 
stood.  "  You  ain't  goin'  past,  Richard  ?  You  ain't 
goin'  past,  Richard  ?"  Sylvia  was  wailing  over  and 
over,  clinging  to  the  old  gate-post. 


160 


Barney  stood  before  her,  hesitating.  Sylvia  reached 
out  a  hand  towards  him,  clutching  piteously  with 
pale  ringers  through  the  gloom.  Barney  drew  back 
from  the  poor  hand.  "  I  rather  think — you've — made 
a  mistake,"  he  faltered  out. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  past,  Richard  ?"  Sylvia  wailed 
out  again.  She  flung  out  her  lean  arm  farther  tow 
ards  him.  Then  she  wavered.  Barney  thought  she 
was  going  to  fall,  and  he  stepped  forward  and  caught 
hold  of  her  elbow.  "  I  guess  you  don't  feel  well,  do 
yon,  Miss  Crane  ?"  he  said.  "  I  guess  you  had  better 
go  into  the  house,  hadn't  you?" 

"  I  feel — kind  of — bad — I — thought  you  was  goin' 
— past,"  gasped  Sylvia.  Barney  supported  her  awk 
wardly  into  the  house.  At  times  she  leaned  her 
whole  trembling  weight  upon  him,  and  then  with 
drew  herself,  all  unnerved  as  she  was,  with  the  inborn 
maiden  reticence  which  so  many  years  had  strength 
ened  ;  once  she  pushed  him  from  her,  then  drooped 
upon  his  arm  again,  and  all  the  time  she  kept  moan 
ing,  "  I  thought  you  was  goin'  right  past,  Richard,  I 
thought  you  was  goin'  right  past." 

And  Barney  kept  repeating,  "  I  guess  you've  made 
a  mistake,  Miss  Crane  ";  but  she  did  not  heed  him. 

When  they  were  inside  the  parlor  he  shifted  her 
weight  gently  on  to  the  sofa,  and  would  have  drawn 
off ;  but  she  clung  to  his  arm,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  forced  to  sit  down  beside  her  or  be 
rough  with  her.  "  I  thought  you  was  goin'  right 
past,  Richard,"  she  said  again. 


170 


"  I  ain't  Richard,"  said  Barney  ;  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  hear  him.  She  looked  straight  in  his  face 
with  a  strange  boldness,  her  body  inclined  towards 
him,  her  head  thrown  back.  Her  thin,  faded  cheeks 
were  burning,  her  blue  eyes  eager,  her  lips  twitching 
with  pitiful  smiles.  The  room  was  dim  with  candle 
light,  but  everything  in  it  was  distinct,  and  Sylvia 
Crane,  looking  straight  at  Barney  Thayer's  face,  saw 
the  face  of  Richard  Alger. 

Suddenly  Barney  himself  had  a  curious  impression. 
The  features  of  Richard  Alger  instead  of  his  own 
seemed  to  look  back  at  him  from  his  own  thoughts. 
He  dashed  his  hand  across  his  face  with  an  impa 
tient,  bewildered  motion,  as  if  he  brushed  away  un 
seen  cobwebs,  and  stood  up.  "  You  have  made — " 
he  began  again  ;  but  Sylvia  interrupted  him  with  a 
weak  cry.  "  Set  down  here,  set  down  here,  jest  a 
minute,  if  you  don't  want  to  kill  me  !"  she  wailed  out, 
and  she  clutched  at  his  sleeve  and  pulled  him  down, 
and  before  he  knew  what  she  was  doing  had  shrunk 
close  to  him,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  She 
went  on  talking  desperately  in  her  weak  voice — 
strained  shrill  octaves  above  her  ordinary  tone. 

"I've  had  this  —  sofa  ten  years,"  she  said — "ten 
years,  Richard — an'  you  never  set  with  me  on  it  be 
fore,  an' — you'd  been  comin' — here  a  long  while  be 
fore  that  came  betwixt  us  last  spring,  Richard.  Ain't 
you  forgiven  me  yet  ?" 

Barney  made  no  reply. 

"Can't  you  put  your  arm   around  me  jest  once, 


171 


Richard  ?"  she  went  on.  "  You  ain't  never,  an'  you've 
been  comin'  here  a  long  while.  I've  had  this  sofa 
ten  years." 

Barney  put  his  arm  around  her,  seemingly  with  no 
volition  of  his  own. 

"  It's  six  months  to-day  sence  you  came  last,"  Syl 
via  said—"  it's  six  whole  months  ;  an'  when  I  see  you 
goin'  past  to-night,  it  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  bear 
it — it  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  bear  it,  Richard." 
Sylvia  turned  her  pale  profile  closer  to  Barney's 
breast  and  sobbed  faintly.  "  I've  watched  so  long 
for  you,"  she  sighed  out;  "all  these  months  I've  sat 
there  at  the  window,  strainin'  my  eyes  into  the  dark. 
Oh,  you  don't  know,  Richard,  you  won't  never  know  !" 

Barney  trembled  with  Sylvia's  sobs.  He  sat  with 
a  serious  shamefacedness,  his  arm  around  the  poor 
bony  waist,  staring  over  the  faded  fair  head,  which 
had  never  lain  on  any  lover's  breast  except  in  dreams. 
For  the  moment  he  could  not  stir ;  he  had  a  feeling 
of  horror,  as  if  he  saw  his  own  double.  There  was 
a  subtfe  resemblance  which  lay  deeper  than  the  feat 
ures  between  him  and  Richard  Alger.  Sylvia  saw 
it,  and  he  saw  his  own  self  reflected  as  Richard  Al 
ger  in  that  straining  mental  vision  of  hers  which  ex 
ceeded  the  spiritual  one. 

"  Can't  you  forgive  me,  an' — come  again  the  way 
— you  used  to  ?"  Sylvia  panted  out.  "  I  couldn't  get 
home  before,  that  night,  nohow.  I  couldn't,  Richard 
— 'twas  the  night  Charlotte  an'  Barney  fell  out.  They 
had  a  dreadful  time.  I  had  to  stay  there.  It  wa'n't 


172 


my  fault.  If  Barney  had  come  back,  I  could  have 
got  here  in  season  ;  but  poor  Charlotte  was  settin'  out 
there  all  alone  on  the  doorstep,  an'  her  father  wouldn't 
let  her  in,  an'  Sarah  took  on  so  I  had  to  stay.  I 
thought  I  should  die  when  I  got  back  an'  found  out 
you'd  been  here  an'  gone.  Ain't  you  goin'  to  for 
give  me,  Richard  ?" 

Barney  suddenly  removed  his  arm  from  Sylvia's 
waist,  pushed  her  clinging  hands  away,  and  stood  up 
again.  "Now,  Miss  Crane,"  he  said,  "I've  got  to 
tell  you.  You've  got  to  listen,  and  take  it  in.  I  am 
not  Richard  Alger ;  I  am  Barney  Thayer." 

"What?"  Sylvia  said,  feebly,  looking  up  at  him. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  say,  Richard  ;  I  wish  you'd 
say  it  again." 

"  I  ain't  Richard  Alger ;  I  am  Barney  Thayer,"  re 
peated  Barney,  in  a  loud,  distinct  voice.  Sylvia's 
straining,  questioning  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face. 
"  You  made  a  mistake,"  said  Barney. 

Sylvia  turned  her  eyes  away ;  she  laid  her  head 
down  on  the  arm  of  the  hair-cloth  sofa,  and  gasped 
faintly.  Barney  bent  over  her.  "  Now  don't  feel 
bad,  Miss  Crane,"  said  he ;  "  I  sha'n't  ever  say  a  word 
about  this  to  anybody." 

Sylvia  made  no  reply  ;  she  lay  there  half  gasping 
for  breath,  and  her  face  looked  deathly  to  Barney. 

"  Miss  Crane,  are  you  sick  ?"  he  cried  out  in  alarm. 
When  she  did  not  answer,  he  even  laid  hold  of  her 
shoulder,  and  shook  her  gently,  and  repeated  the 
question,  lie  did  not  know  if  she  were  faint  or  dy- 


173 


ing ;  he  had  never  seen  anybody  faint  or  die.  He 
wished  instinctively  that  his  mother  were  there;  he 
thought  for  a  second  of  running  for  her  in  spite  of 
everything. 

"I'll  go  and  get  some  water  for  you,  Miss  Crane," 
he  said,  desperately,  and  seized  the  candle,  and  went 
with  it,  flaring  and  leaving  a  wake  of  smoke,  out  into 
the  kitchen.  He  presently  came  back  with  a  dipper 
of  water,  and  held  it  dripping  over  Sylvia.  "  Hadn't 
you  better  drink  a  little  ?"  he  urged.  But  Sylvia  sud 
denly  motioned  him  away  and  sat  up.  "  No,  I  don't 
want  any  water;  I  don't  want  anything  after  this," 
she  said,  in  a  quick,  desperate  tone.  "  I  can  never 
look  anybody  in  the  face  again.  I  can  never  go  to 
meetin'  again." 

"  Don't  you  feel  so  about  it,  Miss  Crane,"  Barney 
pleaded,  his  own  voice  uncertain  and  embarrassed. 
"  The  room  ain't  very  light,  and  it's  dark  outside ; 
maybe  I  do  look  like  him  a  little.  It  ain't  any  won 
der  you  made  the  mistake." 

"  It  wa'n't  that,"  returned  Sylvia.  "  I  dunno  what 
the  reason  was ;  it  don't  make  any  difference.  I 
can't  never  go  to  meetin'  again." 

"  I  sha'ri't  tell  anybody,"  said  Barney  ;  "  I  sha'n't 
ever  speak  of  it  to  any  human  being." 

Sylvia  turned  on  him  with  sudden  fierceness.  "You 
had  better  not,"  said  she,  "  when  you're  doin'  jest 
the  same  as  Richard  Alger  yourself,  an'  you're  makin' 
Charlotte  sit  an'  watch  an'  suffer  for  nothin'  at  all, 
jest  as  he  makes  me.  You  had  better  not  tell  of  it, 


174 


Barney  Thayer,  when  it  was  all  due  to  your  awful 
will  that  won't  let  you  give  in  to  anybody,  in  the 
first  place,  an'  when  you  are  so  much  like  Richard  Al- 
ger  yourself  that  it's  no  wonder  that  anybody  that 
knows  him  body  and  soul,  as  I  do,  took  you  for  him. 
You  had  better  not  tell." 

Again  Barney  seemed  to  see  before  his  eyes  that 
image  of  himself  as  Richard  Alger,  and  he  could  no 
more  change  it  than  he  could  change  his  own  image 
in  the  looking-glass.  He  said  not  another  word,  but 
carried  the  dipper  of  water  back  to  the  kitchen,  re 
turned  with  the  candle,  setting  it  gingerly  on  the 
white  mantel-shelf  between  a  vase  of  dried  flowers 
and  a  mottle-backed  shell,  and  went  out  of  the  house. 
Sylvia  did  not  speak  again ;  but  he  heard  her  moan 
as  he  closed  the  door,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
heard  her  as  he  went  down  the  road,  although  he  knew 
that  he  could  not. 

It  was  quite  dark  now  ;  all  the  light  came  from  a 
pale  wild  sky.  The  moon  was  young,  and  feebly 
intermittent  with  the  clouds. 

Barney,  hastening  along,  was  all  trembling  and 
unnerved.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  the 
woman  whom  he  had  just  left  was  ill,  and  laboring 
under  some  sudden  aberration  of  mind  ;  yet,  in  spite 
of  himself,  he  realized  a  terrible  rationality  in  it. 
Little  as  he  had  been  among  the  village  people  of 
late,  and  little  as  he  had  heard  of  the  village  gossip, 
he  knew  the  story  of  Richard  Alger's  desertion  of 
Sylvia  Crane.  Was  he  not  like  Richard  Alger  in 


175 


his  own  desertion  of  Charlotte  Barnard?  and  had 
not  Sylvia  been  as  little  at  fault  in  taking  one  for  the 
other  as  if  they  had  been  twin  brothers  ?  Might 
there  not  be  a  closer  likeness  between  characters 
than  features — perhaps  by  a  repetition  of  sins  and 
deformities  ?  and  might  not  one  now  and  then  be 
able  to  see  it  ? 

Then  the  question  came,  was  Charlotte  like  Syl 
via?  Was  Charlotte  even  now  sitting  watching  for 
him  with  that  awful  eagerness  which  comes  from  a 
hunger  of  the  heart?  He  had  seen  one  woman's 
wounded  heart,  and,  like  most  men,  was  disposed  to 
generalize,  and  think  he  had  seen  the  wounded  hearts 
of  all  women. 

When  he  had  reached  the  turn  of  the  road,  and 
had  come  out  on  the  main  one  where  his  house  was, 
and  where  Charlotte  lived,  he  stood  still,  looking  in 
her  direction.  He  seemed  to  see  her,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  in  the  darkness,  sitting  in  her  window 
watching  for  him,  as  Sylvia  had  watched  for  Richard. 

He  set  his  mouth  hard  and  crossed  the  road.  He 
had  just  reached  his  own  yard  when  there  was  the 
pale  flutter  of  a  skirt  out  of  the  darkness  before  him, 
and  a  little  shadowy  figure  met  him  with  a  soft  shock. 
There  was  a  smothered  nervous  titter  from  the  figure. 
Barney  did  not  know  who  it  was ;  he  muttered  an 
apology,  and  was  about  to  pass  into  his  yard  when 
Rose  Berry's  voice  arrested  him.  It  was  quite  trem 
bling  and  uncertain ;  all  the  laughter  had  gone  out 
of  it. 


176 


"  Oh,  it's  you,"  said  she  ;  "  you  frightened  me.  I 
didn't  know  who  it  was." 

Barney  felt  suddenly  annoyed  without  knowing 
why.  "Oh,  is  it  you,  Rose?"  he  returned,  stiffly. 
"  It's  a  pleasant  evening  ;"  then  he  turned. 

"  Barney  !"  Rose  said,  and  her  voice  sounded  as  if 
she  were  weeping. 

Barney  stopped  and  waited. 

"I  want  to  know  if — you're  mad  with  me, Barney." 

"  No,  of  course  I  ain't ;  why  ?" 

"  I  thought  you'd  acted  kind  of  queer  to  me  lately." 

Barney  stood  still,  frowning  in  the  darkness.  "  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I 
don't  know  how  I've  treated  you  any  different  from 
any  of  the  girls." 

"  You  haven't  been  to  see  me,  and — you've  hardly 
spoken  to  me  since  the  cherry  party." 

"  I  haven't  been  to  see  anybody,"  said  Barney, 
shortly ;  and  he  turned  away  again,  but  Rose  caught 
his  arm.  "Then  you  are  sure  you  aren't  mad  with 
me  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  Of  course  I'm  sure,"  Barney  returned,  impa 
tiently. 

"  It  would  kill  me  if  you  were,"  Rose  whispered. 
She  pressed  close  to  him ;  he  could  feel  her  softly 
panting  against  his  side,  her  head  sunk  on  his  shoul 
der.  "  I've  been  worrying  about  it  all  these  months," 
she  said  in  his  ear.  Her  soft  curly  hair  brushed 
his  cheek,  but  her  little  transient  influence  over  him 
was  all  gone.  He  felt  angry  and  ashamed. 


177 


"  I  haven't  thought  anything  about  it,"  he  said, 
brusquely. 

Rose  sobbed  faintly,  but  she  did  not  move  away 
from  him.  Suddenly  that  cruel  repulsion  which 
seizes  mankind  towards  reptiles  and  unsought  love 
seized  Barney.  He  unclasped  her  clinging  hands, 
and  fairly  pushed  her  away  from  him.  "  Good 
night,  Rose,"  he  said,  shortly,  and  turned,  and  went 
up  the  path  to  his  own  door  with  determined  strides. 

"  Barney !"  Rose  called  after  him ;  but  he  paid 
no  attention.  She  even  ran  up  the  path  after  him ; 
but  the  door  shut,  and  she  turned  back.  She  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  there  was  a  great  rush 
ing  in  her  ears ;  but  she  heard  a  quick  light  step  be 
hind  her  when  she  got  out  on  the  road,  and  she 
hurried  on  before  it  with  a  vague  dread. 

She  almost  ran  at  length  ;  but  the  footsteps  gained 
on  her.  A  dark  skirt  brushed  her  light-colored  one, 
and  Charlotte's  voice,  full  of  contempt  and  indigna 
tion,  said  in  her  ear :  "  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  you." 

"  I — was  coming  up — to  your — house,"  Rose  fal 
tered  ;  she  could  hardly  get  her  breath  to  speak. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come,  then  ?"  demanded  Char 
lotte.  "  What  made  you  go  to  Barney  Thayer's?" 

"  I  didn't,"  said  Rose,  in  feeble  self-defence.  "  He 
was  out  in  the  road — I — just  stopped  to — speak  to 
him—" 

"  You  were  coming  out  of  his  yard,"  Charlotte 
said,  pitilessly.     "You   followed   him   in  there — I 
saw  you.     Shame  on  you  !" 
12 


178 


"Oh,  Charlotte,  I  haven't  done  anything  out  of 
the  way,"  pleaded  Rose,  weakly. 

"  You  have  tried  your  best  to  get  Barney  Thayer 
all  the  time  you  have  been  pretending  to  be  such  a 
good  friend  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  you  call  out 
of  the  way." 

"  Charlotte,  don't— I  haven't." 

"  Yes,  you  have.  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  once  for 
all,  what  I  think  of  you.  You've  been  a  false  friend 
to  me ;  and  now  when  Barney  don't  notice  you,  you 
follow  him  up  as  no  girl  that  thought  anything  of 
herself  would.  And  you  don't  even  care  anything 
for  him  ;  you  haven't  even  that  for  an  excuse." 

"You  don't  know  but  what  I  do!"  Rose  cried  out, 
desperately. 

"  Yes,  I  do  know.  If  anybody  else  came  along, 
you'd  care  for  him  just  the  same." 

"I  shouldn't  —  Charlotte,  I  should  never  have 
thought  of  Barney  if  he — hadn't  left  you,  you  know 
I  shouldn't." 

"That's  no  excuse,"  said  Charlotte,  sternly. 

"  You  said  yourself  he  would  never  come  back  to 
you,"  said  Rose. 

"  Would  you  have  liked  me  to  have  done  so  by 
you,  if  you  had  been  in  my  place  ?" 

Rose  twitched  herself  about.  "  You  can't  expect 
him  never  to  marry  anybody  because  he  isn't  going 
to  marry  you,"  she  said,  defiantly. 

"  I  don't — I  am  not  quite  so  selfish  as  that.  But  he 
won't  ever  marry  anybody  he  don't  like  because  she 


179 


follows  him  up,  and  I  don't  see  how  that  alters  what 
you've  done." 

Rose  began  to  walk  away.  Charlotte  stood  still, 
but  she  raised  her  voice.  "  I  am  not  very  happy," 
said  she,  "  and  I  sha'n't  be  happy  my  whole  life,  but 
I  wouldn't  change  places  with  you.  You've  lowered 
yourself,  and  that's  worse  than  any  unhappiness." 

Rose  fled  away  in  the  darkness  without  another 
word,  and  Charlotte  crossed  the  road  to  go  to  her 
Aunt  Sylvia's. 

Rose,  as  she  went  on,  felt  as  if  all  her  dreams 
were  dying  within  her ;  a  dull  vision  of  the  next 
morning  when  she  should  awake  without  them 
weighed  upon  her.  She  had  a  childish  sense  of 
shame  and  remorse,  and  a  conviction  of  the  truth  of 
Charlotte's  words.  And  yet  she  had  an  injured  and 
bewildered  feeling,  as  if  somewhere  in  this  terrible 
nature,  at  whose  mercy  she  was,  there  was  some  ex 
cuse  for  her. 

Rose  was  nearly  home  when  she  began  to  meet 
the  people  coming  from  meeting.  She  kept  close  to 
the  wall,  and  scudded  along  swiftly  that  no  one  might 
recognize  her.  All  at  once  a  young  man  whom  she 
had  passed  turned  and  walked  along  by  her  side, 
making  a  shy  clutch  at  her  arm. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said,  wearily.  ; 

"  Yes ;  do  you  care  if  I  walk  along  with  you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Rose,  "  not  if  you  want  to." 

An  old  pang  of  gratitude  came  over  her.  It  was 
only  the  honest,  overgrown  boy,  Tommy  Ray,  of  the 


180 


store.  She  had  known  he  worshipped  her  afar  off;  she 
had  laughed  at  him  and  half  despised  him,  but  now 
she  felt  suddenly  humble  and  grateful  for  even  this 
devotion.  She  moved  her  arm  that  he  might  hold  it 
more  closely, 

"  It's  too  dark  for  you  to  be  out  alone,"  he  said,  in 
his  embarrassed,  tender  voice. 

"Yes,  it's  pretty  dark,"  said  Rose.  Her  voice 
shook,  They  had  passed  the  last  group  of  returning 
people.  Suddenly  Rose,  in  spite  of  herself,  began 
to  cry.  She  sobbed  wildly,  and  the  boy,  full  of  alarm 
and  sympathy,  walked  on  by  her  side. 

"There  ain't  anything  —  scared  you,  has  there?" 
he  stammered  out,  awkwardly,  at  length. 

"  No,"  sobbed  Rose, 

"  You  ain't  sick  ?" 

"  No,  it  isn't  anything." 

The  boy  held  her  arm  closer;  he  trembled  and 
almost  sobbed  himself  with  sympathy.  Before  they 
reached  the  old  tavern  Rose  had  stopped  crying — she 
even  tried  to  laugh  and  turn  it  off  with  a  jest.  "  I 
don't  know  what  got  into  me,"  she  said ;  "  I  guess  I 
was  nervous." 

"  I  didn't  know  but  something  had  scared  you," 
said  the  boy. 

*They  stood  on  the  door-steps ;  the  house  was  dark. 
Rose's  parents  had  gone  to  bed,  and  William  was 
out.  The  boy  still  held  Rose's  arm.  He  had  adored 
her  secretly  ever  since  he  was  a  child,  and  he  had 
never  dared  as  much  as  that  before.  He  had  thought 


BARNEY    SAT    STAKING    AT   VACANCY" 


181 


of  Rose  like  a  queen  or  a  princess,  and  the  thought 
had  ennobled  his  boyish  ignorance  and  commonness. 

"  No,  I  wasn't  scared,"  said  Rose,  and  something 
in  her  voice  gave  sudden  boldness  to  her  young 
lover. 

He  released  her  arm,  and  put  both  his  arms  around 
her.  "  I'm  sorry  you  feel  so  bad,"  he  whispered, 
panting. 

"  It  isn't  anything,"  returned  Rose,  but  she  half 
sobbed  again;  the  boy's  round  cheek  pressed  against 
her  wet,  burning  one.  He  was  several  years  younger 
than  she.  She  had  half  scorned  him,  but  she  had 
one  of  those  natures  that  crave  love  for  its  own 
sweetness  as  palates  crave  sugar. 

She  wept  a  little  on  his  shoulder ;  and  the  boy, 
half  beside  himself  with  joy  and  terror,  stood  hold 
ing  her  fast  in  his  arms. 

"  Don't  feel  bad,"  he  kept  whispering.  Finally 
Rose  raised  herself.  "  I  must  go  in,"  she  whispered; 
"  good-night." 

The  boy's  pleading  face,  his  innocent,  passionate 
lips  approached  hers,  and  they  kissed  each  other. 

"Don't  you — like  me  a  little?"  gasped  the  boy. 

"  Maybe  I  will,"  Rose  whispered  back.  His  face 
came  closer,  and  she  kissed  him  again.  Then,  with 
a  murmured  "good -night,"  she  fled  into  the  house, 
and  the  boy  went  down  the  hill  with  sweeter  dreams 
in  his  heart  than  those  which  she  had  lost, 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  the  Sunday  following  the  one  of  Barnabas 
Thayer's  call  Sylvia  Crane  appeared  at  meeting  in  a 
black  lace  veil  like  a  Spanish  senorita.  The  heavily 
wrought  black  lace  fell  over  her  face,  and  people 
could  get  only  shifting  glimpses  of  her  delicate  feat 
ures  behind  it. 

Richard  Alger  glanced  furtively  at  the  pale  face 
shrinking  austerely  behind  the  net -work  of  black 
silk  leaves  and  flowers,  and  wondered  at  some  change 
which  he  felt  but  could  not  fathom.  He  scarcely 
knew  that  she  had  never  worn  the  veil  before.  And 
Richard  Alger,  had  he  known,  could  never  have  fath 
omed  the  purely  feminine  motive  compounded  of 
pride  and  shame  which  led  his  old  sweetheart  to  un 
earth  from  the  depths  of  a  bandbox  her  mother's 
worked-lace  veil,  and  tie  its  narrow  black  drawing- 
string  with  trembling  fingers  over  her  own  bonnet. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  in  creation  you've  got  that 
veil  on  for?"  whispered  her  sister,  Hannah  Berry,  as 
they  went  down  the  aisle  after  meeting. 

"I  thought  I  would,"  responded  Sylvia's  muffled 
voice  behind  the  veil. 

"  You've  got  the  flowers  right  over  your  eyes.  I 
shouldn't  think  you  could  see  to  walk.  You  ain't 


183 


never  worn  a  veil  in  your  life.  I  can't  see  what  has 
got  into  you,"  persisted  Hannah. 

Sylvia  edged  away  from  her  as  soon  as  she  could, 
and  glided  down  the  road  towards  her  own  house 
swiftly,  although  her  knees  trembled.  Sylvia's  knees 
always  trembled  when  she  came  out  of  church,  after 
she  had  sat  an  hour  and  a  half  opposite  Richard 
Alger.  To-day  they  felt  weaker  than  ever,  after  her 
encounter  with  Hannah.  Nobody  knew  the  terror 
Sylvia  had  of  her  sister's  discovering  how  she  had 
called  in  Barnabas  Thayer,  and  in  a  manner  unveiled 
her  maiden  heart  to  him.  When  Charlotte  had  come 
in  that  night  after  Barnabas  had  gone,  and  discovered 
her  crying  on  the  sofa,  she  had  jumped  up  and  con 
fronted  her  with  a  fierce  instinct  of  concealment. 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  new  the  matter,"  she  said,  in 
response  to  Charlotte's  question ;  "  I  was  thinkin' 
about  mother ;  I'm  apt  to  when  it  comes  dusk."  It 
was  the  first  deliberate  lie  that  Sylvia  Crane  had  ever 
told  in  her  life.  She  reflected  upon  it  after  Char 
lotte  had  gone,  and  reflected  also  with  fierce  hardi 
hood  that  she  would  lie  again  were  it  necessary. 
Should  she  hesitate  at  a  lie  if  it  would  cover  the 
maiden  reserve  that  she  had  cherished  so  long  ? 

However,  Charlotte  had  suspected  more  than  her 
aunt  knew  of  the  true  cause  of  her  agitation.  A 
similar  motive  for  grief  made  her  acute.  Sylvia, 
mourning  alone  of  a  Sabbath  night  upon  her  hair 
cloth  sofa,  struck  an  old  chord  of  her  own  heart. 
Charlotte  dared  not  say  a  word  to  comfort  her  di- 


184 


rectly.  She  condoled  with  her  for  the  fifteen-years- 
old  loss  of  her  mother,  and  did  not  allude  to  Rich 
ard  Alger ;  but  going  home  she  said  to  herself,  with 
a  miserable  qualm  of  pity,  that  poor  Aunt  Sylvia 
was  breaking  her  heart  because  Richard  had  stopped 
coming. 

"  It's  harder  for  Aunt  Sylvia  because  she's  older," 
thought  Charlotte,  on  her  way  home  that  night.  But 
then  she  thought  also,  with  a  sorer  qualm  of  self- 
pity,  that  Sylvia  had  not  quite  so  long  a  life  before 
her,  to  live  alone.  Charlotte  had  nearly  reached  her 
own  home  that  night  when  two  figures  suddenly 
slunk  across  the  road  before  her.  She  at  once  rec 
ognized  Rebecca  Thayer  as  one  of  them,  and  called 
out  "  Good-evening,  Rebecca !"  to  her. 

Rebecca  made  only  a  muttered  sound  in  response, 
and  they  both  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  There 
was  a  look  of  secrecy  and  flight  about  it  which 
somehow  startled  Charlotte,  engrossed  as  she  was 
with  her  own  troubles  and  her  late  encounter  with 
Rose. 

When  she  got  into  the  house  she  spoke  of  it  to 
her  mother.  Cephas  had  gone  to  bed,  and  Sarah 
was  sitting  up  waiting  for  her. 

"  I  met  Rebecca  and  William  out  here,"  said  she, 
untying  her  hat,  "and  I  thought  they  acted  real 
queer."  Sarah  cast  a  glance  at  the  bedroom  door, 
which  was  ajar,  and  motioned  Charlotte  to  close  it. 
Charlotte  tiptoed  across  the  room  and  shut  the  door 
softly,  lest  she  should  awaken  her  father ;  then  her 


185 


mother  beckoned  her  to  come  close,  and  whispered 
something  in  her  ear. 

Charlotte  started,  and  a  great  blush  flamed  out  all 
over  her  face  and  neck.  She  looked  at  her  mother 
with  angry  shame.  "  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it," 
said  she  ;  "  not  a  word  of  it." 

"  I  walked  home  from  meetin'  with  Mrs.  Allen  this 
evenin',"  said  her  mother,  "  an'  she  says  it's  all  over 
town.  She  says  Rebecca's  been  stealin'  out,  an'  goin' 
to  walk  with  him  unbeknownst  to  her  mother  all 
summer.  You  know  her  mother  wouldn't  let  him 
come  to  the  house." 

"  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  repeated  Char 
lotte. 

"  Mis'  Allen  says  it's  so,"  said  Sarah.  "  She  says 
Mis'  Thayer  has  had  to  stay  home  from  evenin' 
meetin'  on  account  of  Ephraim — she  don't  like  to 
leave  him  alone,  he  ain't  been  quite  so  well  lately — an' 
Rebecca  has  made  believe  go  to  meetin'  when  she's 
been  off  with  William.  Mis'  Thayer  went  to  meetin' 
to-night." 

"  Wasn't  Mr.  Thayer  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  was  there,  but  he  wouldn't  know  what 
was  goin'  on.  'Tain't  very  hard  to  pull  the  wool  over 
Caleb  Thayer's  eyes." 

"  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  Charlotte  said, 
again.  When  she  went  up-stairs  to  bed  that  whisper 
of  her  mother's  seemed  to  sound  through  and  above 
all  her  own  trouble.  It  was  to  her  like  a  note  of 
despair  and  shame,  quite  outside  her  own  gamut  of 


186 


life.  She  could  not  believe  that  she  heard  it  at  all. 
Rebecca's  face  as  she  had  always  known  her  came 
up  before  her.  "  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  she 
said  again  to  herself. 

But  that  whisper  which  had  shocked  her  ear  had 
already  begun  to  be  repeated  all  over  the  village — by 
furtive  matrons,  behind  their  hands,  when  the  children 
had  been  sent  out  of  the  room  ;  by  girls,  blushing 
beneath  each  other's  eyes  as  they  whispered ;  by  the 
lounging  men  in  the  village  store ;  it  was  sent  like  an 
evil  strain  through  the  consciousness  of  the  village, 
until  everybody  except  Rebecca's  own  family  had 
heard  it. 

Barnabas  saw  little  of  other  people,  and  nobody 
dared  repeat  the  whisper  to  him,  and  they  had  too 
much  mercy  or  too  little  courage  to  repeat  it  to  Caleb 
or  Deborah.  Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  if  any  woman  in 
the  village,  even  Hannah  Berry,  would  have  ventured 
to  face  Deborah  Thayer  with  this  rumor  concerning 
her  daughter. 

Deborah  had  of  late  felt  anxious  about  Rebecca, 
who  did  not  seem  like  herself.  Her  face  was  strange 
ly  changed ;  all  the  old  meaning  had  gone  out  of  it, 
and  given  place  to  another,  which  her  mother  could 
not  interpret.  Sometimes  Rebecca  looked  like  a 
stranger. to  her  as  she  moved  about  the  house.  She 
said  to  many  that  Rebecca  was  miserable,  and  was 
incensed  that  she  got  so  little  sympathy  in  response. 
Once  when  Rebecca  fainted  in  meeting,  and  had  to 
be  carried  out,  she  felt  in  the  midst  of  her  alarm  a 


187 


certain  triumph.  "  I  guess  folks  will  see  now  that  I 
ain't  been  fussin'  over  her  for  nothin',"  she  thought. 
When  Rebecca  revived  under  a  sprinkle  of  water,  out 
in  the  vestibule,  she  said  impatiently  to  the  other 
women  bending  their  grave,  concerned  faces  over  her, 
"  She's  been  miserable  for  some  time.  I  ain't  sur 
prised  at  this  at  all  myself." 

Deborah  watched  over  Rebecca  with  a  fierce,  peck 
ing  tenderness  like  a  bird.  She  brewed  great  bowls 
of  domestic  medicines  from  nuts  and  herbs,  and 
made  her  drink  whether  she  would  or  not.  She  sent 
her  to  bed  early,  and  debarred  her  from  the  night  air. 
She  never  had  a  suspicion  of  the  figure  slipping  soft 
ly  as  a  shadow  across  the  north  parlor  and  out  the 
front  door  night  after  night. 

She  never  exchanged  a  word  with  Rebecca  about 
William  Berry.  She  tried  to  persuade  herself  that 
Rebecca  no  longer  thought  much  about  him;  she 
drove  from  her  mind  the  fear  lest  Rebecca's  illness 
might  be  due  to  grief  at  parting  from  him.  She 
looked  at  Thomas  Payne  with  a  speculative  eye;  she 
thought  that  he  would  make  a  good  husband  for  Re 
becca  ;  she  dreamed  of  him,  and  built  bridal  castles 
for  him  and  her  daughter,  as  she  knitted  those  yards 
of  lace  at  night,  when  Rebecca  had  gone  to  bed  in 
her  little  room  off  the  north  parlor.  When  Thomas 
Payne  went  west  a  month  after  Charlotte  Barnard 
had  refused  him,  she  transferred  her  dreams  to  some 
fine  stranger  who  should  come  to  the  village  and  at 
once  be  smitten  with  Rebecca.  She  never  thought 


188 


it  possible  that  Rebecca  could  be  persisting  in  her 
engagement  to  William  Berry  against  her  express 
command.  Her  own  obstinacy  was  incredible  to  her 
in  her  daughter ;  she  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  it,  and  Rebecca  had  less  to  guard  against. 

As  the  fall  advanced  Rebecca  showed  less  and  less 
inclination  to  go  in  the  village  society.  Her  mother 
fairly  drove  her  out  at  times.  Once  Rebecca,  utterly 
overcome,  sank  down  in  a  chair  and  wept  when  her 
mother  urged  her  to  go  to  a  husking-party  in  the 
neighborhood. 

"  You've  got  to  spunk  up  an'  go,  if  you  don't  feel 
like  it,"  said  her  mother.  "  You'll  feel  better  for  it 
afterwards.  There  ain't  no  use  in  givin'  up  so.  I'm 
goin'  to  get  you  a  new  crimson  woollen  dress,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  have  you  go  out  more'n  you've  done  lately." 

"  I — don't  want  a  new  dress,"  returned  Rebecca, 
with  wild  sobs. 

"  Well,  I'm  goin'  to  get  you  one  to-morrow,"  said 
her  mother.  "  Now  go  an'  wash  your  face  an'  do  up 
your  hair,  an'  get  ready.  You  can  wear  your  brown 
dress,  with  the  cherry  ribbon  in  your  hair,  to-night." 

"  I  don't — feel  fit  to,  mother,"  moaned  Rebecca, 
piteously. 

But  Deborah  would  not  listen  to  her.  She  made 
her  get  ready  for  the  husking-party,  and  looked  at 
her  with  pride  when  she  stood  all  dressed  to  go,  in 
the  kitchen. 

"  You  look  better  than  you've  done  for  some  time," 
said  she,  "an'  that  brown  dress  don't  look  bad,  either, 


189 


if  you  have  had  it  three  winters.  I'm  goin'  to  get 
you  a  nice  new  crimson  woollen  this  winter.  I've 
had  my  mind  made  up  to  for  some  time." 

After  Rebecca  had  gone  and  Ephraim  had  said  his 
catechism  and  gone  to  bed,  Deborah  sat  and  knitted, 
and  planned  to  get  the  crimson  dress  for  Rebecca  the 
next  day. 

She  looked  over  at  Caleb,  who  sat  dozing  by  the 
fire.  "  I'll  go  to-morrow,  if  he  ain't  got  to  spend 
all  that  last  interest-money  for  the  parish  taxes  an' 
cuttin-  that  wood,"  said  she.  "  I  dunno  how  much 
that  wood-cuttin'  come  to,  an'  he  won't  know  to-night 
if  I  wake  him  up.  I  can't  get  it  through  his  head. 
But  I'll  buy  it  to-morrow  if  there's  money  enough 
left." 

But  Deborah  was  forced  to  wait  a  few  weeks,  since 
it  took  all  the  interest  -  money  for  the  parish  taxes 
and  to  pay  for  the  wood-cutting.  She  had  to  wait 
until  Caleb  had  sold  some  of  the  wood,  and  that  took 
some  time,  since  seller  and  purchasers  were  slow- 
motioned. 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  she  drove  herself  over  to 
Bolton  in  the  chaise  to  buy  the  dress.  She  went  to 
Bolton,  because  she  would  not  go  herself  to  Silas 
Berry's  store  and  trade  with  William.  She  could 
send  Caleb  there  for  household  goods,  but  this  dress 
she  would  trust  no  one  but  herself  to  purchase. 

She  had  planned  that  Rebecca  should  go  with  her, 
but  the  girl  looked  so  utterly  wan  and  despairing 
that  day  that  she  forbore  to  insist  upon  it.  Caleb 


190 


would  have  accompanied  her,  but  she  would  not  let 
him.  "  I  never  did  think  much  of  men-folks  standin' 
round  in  stores  gawpin'  while  women-folks  was  trad 
ing''  said  she.  She  would  not  allow  Ephraim  to  go, 
although  he  pleaded  hard.  It  was  quite  a  cold  day, 
and  she  was  afraid  of  the  sharp  air  for  his  laboring 
breath. 

A  little  after  noon  she  set  forth,  all  alone  in  the 
chaise,  slapping  the  reins  energetically  over  the  white 
horse's  back,  a  thick  green  veil  tied  over  her  bonnet 
under  her  chin,  and  the  thin,  sharp  wedge  of  face 
visible  between  the  folds  crimsoning  in  the  frosty 
wind. 

While  she  was  gone  Rebecca  sat  beside  the  win 
dow  and  sewed,  Caleb  shelled  corn  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  Ephraim  made  a  pretence  of  helping  him. 
"You  set  down  an'  help  your  father  shell  corn  while 
I  am  gone,"  his  mother  had  sternly  ordered. 

Occasionally  Ephraim  addressed  whining  remon 
strances  to  his  father,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
go  out-of-doors,  and  Caleb  would  quiet  him  with  one 
effectual  rejoinder :  "  You  know  she  won't  like  it  if 
you  do,  sonny.  You  know  what  she  said." 

Caleb,  as  he  shelled  the  corn  with  the  pottering 
patience  of  old  age  and  constitutional  slowness, 
glanced  now  and  then  at  his  daughter  in  the  win 
dow.  He  thought  she  looked  very  badly,  and  he  had 
all  the  time  lately  the  bewildered  feeling  of  a  child 
who  sees  in  a  familiar"  face  the  marks  of  emotions 
unknown  to  it, 


191 


"  Don't  you  feel  as  well  as  common  to-day,  Rebec 
ca  ?"  he  asked  once,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"  I  don't  feel  sick,  as  I  know  of,  any  day,"  replied 
Rebecca,  shortly,  and  her  face  reddened, 

As  she  sewed  she  looked  out  now  and  then  at  the 
wild  December  day,  the  trees  reeling  in  the  wind,  and 
the  sky  driving  with  the  leaden  clouds.  It  was  too 
cold  and  too  windy  to  snow  all  the  afternoon,  but 
towards  night  it  moderated,  and  the  wind  died  down. 
When  Mrs.  Thayer  came  home  it  was  snowing  quite 
hard,  and  her  green  veil  was  white  when  she  entered 
the  kitchen.  She  took  it  off  and  shook  it,  sputtering 
moisture  in  the  fireplace. 

"  There's  goin'  to  be  a  hard  storm ;  it's  lucky  I 
went  to-day,"  said  she.  "  I  kept  the  dress  under  the 
buffalo-robe,  an'  that  ain't  hurt  any." 

Deborah  waxed  quite  angry,  when  she  proudly 
shook  out  the  soft  gleaming  crimson  lengths  of  thib- 
et,  because  Rebecca  showed  so  little  interest  in  it. 
"  You  don't  deserve  to  have  a  new  dress ;  you  act 
like  a  stick  of  wood,"  she  said. 

Rebecca  made  no  reply.  Presently,  when  she  had 
gone  out  of  the  room  for  something,  Caleb  said, 
anxiously,  "  I  guess  she  don't  feel  quite  so  well  as 
common  to-night." 

"  I'm  gettin'  most  out  of  patience ;  I  dunno  what 
ails  her.  I'm  goin'  to  have  the  doctor  if  this  keeps 
on,"  returned  Deborah. 

Ephraim,  sucking  a  stick  of  candy  brought  to  him 
from  Bolton,  cast  a  strange  glance  at  his  mother — a 


192 


glance  compounded  of  shrewdness  and  terror ;  but 
she  did  not  see  it. 

It  snowed  hard  all  night;  in  the  morning  the  snow 
was  quite  deep,  and  there  was  no  appearance  of 
clearing.  As  soon  as  the  breakfast  dishes  were  put 
away,  Deborah  got  out  the  crimson  thibet.  She  had 
learned  the  tailoring  and  dressmaking  trade  in  her 
youth,  and  she  always  cut  and  fitted  the  garments 
for  the  family. 

She  worked  assiduously;  by  the  middle  of  the 
forenoon  the  dress  was  ready  to  be  tried  on.  Ephra- 
im  and  his  father  were  out  in  the  barn,  she  and 
Rebecca  were  alone  in  the  house. 

She  made  Rebecca  stand  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  floor,  and  she  began  fitting  the  crimson  gown 
to  her.  Rebecca  stood  drooping  heavily,  her  eyes 
cast  down.  Suddenly  her  mother  gave  a  great  start, 
pushed  the  girl  violently  from  her,  and  stood  aloof. 
She  did  not  speak  for  a  few  minutes ;  the  clock  ticked 
in  the  dreadful  silence.  Rebecca  cast  one  glance  at 
her  mother,  whose  eyes  seemed  to  light  the  inner 
most  recesses  of  her  being  to  her  own  vision ;  then 
she  would  have  looked  away,  but  her  mother's  voice 
arrested  her. 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  Deborah.  And  Rebecca 
looked ;  it  was  like  uncovering  a  disfigurement  or 
a  sore. 

"  What — ails  you  ?"  said  her  mother,  in  a  terrible 
voice. 

Then  Rebecca  turned  her  head ;  her  mother's  eyes 


193 


could  not  hold  her  any  longer.  It  was  as  if  her  very 
soul  shrank. 

"  Go  out  of  this  house,"  said  her  mother,  after  a 
minute. 

Rebecca  did  not  make  a  sound.  She  went,  bend 
ing  as  if  there  were  a  wind  at  her  back  impelling  her, 
across  the  kitchen  in  her  quilted  petticoat  and  her 
crimson  thibet  waist,  her  white  arms  hanging  bare. 
She  opened  the  door  that  led  towards  her  own  bed 
room,  and  passed  out. 

Presently  Deborah,  still  standing  where  Rebecca 
had  left  her,  heard  the  front  door  of  the  house  shut. 
After  a  few  minutes  she  took  the  broom  from  its  peg 
in  the  corner,  went  through  the  icy  north  parlor,  past 
Rebecca's  room,  to  the  front  door.  The  snow  heaped 
on  the  outer  threshold  had  fallen  in  when  Rebecca 
opened  it,  and  there  was  a  quantity  on  the  entry 
floor. 

Deborah  opened  the  door  again,  and  swept  out  the 
snow  carefully ;  she  even  swept  the  snow  off  the 
steps  outside,  but  she  never  cast  a  glance  up  or 
down  the  road.  Then  she  beat  the  snow  off  the 
broom,  and  went  in  and  locked  the  door  behind  her. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  kitchen  she  paused  at  Re 
becca's  little  bedroom.  The  waist  of  the  new  gown 
lay  on  the  bed.  She  took  it  out  into  the  kitchen, 
and  folded  it  carefully  with  the  skirt  and  the  pieces ; 
then  she  carried  it  up  to  the  garret  and  laid  it  away 
in  a  chest. 

When  Caleb  and  Ephraim  came  in  from  the  barn 

33 


194 


they  found  Deborah  sitting  at  the  window  knit 
ting  a  stocking.  She  did  not  look  up  when  they 
entered. 

The  corn  was  not  yet  shelled,  and  Caleb  arranged 
his  baskets  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  fell  to  again. 
Ephraim  began  teasing  his  mother  to  let  him  crack 
some  nuts,  but  she  silenced  him  peremptorily.  "  Set 
down  an'  help  your  father  shell  that  corn,"  said  she. 
And  Ephraim  pulled  a  grating  chair  up  to  his  father, 
muttering  cautiously. 

Caleb  kept  looking  at  Deborah  anxiously.  He 
glanced  at  the  door  frequently. 

"Where's  Rebecca?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"  I  dunno,"  replied  Deborah. 

"  Has  she  laid  down  ?" 

"  No,  she  ain't." 

"  She  ain't  gone  out  in  the  snow,  has  she  ?"  Caleb 
said,  with  deploring  anxiety. 

Deborah  answered  not  a  word.  She  pursed  her 
lips  and  knitted. 

"She  ain't,  has  she,  mother?" 

"  Keep  on  with  your  corn,"  said  Deborah;  and  that 
was  all  she  would  say. 

Presently  she  arose  and  prepared  dinner  in  the 
same  dogged  silence.  Caleb,  and  even  Ephraim, 
watched  her  furtively,  with  alarmed  eyes. 

When  Rebecca  did  not  appear  at  the  dinner-table 
Caleb  did  not  say  anything  about  it,  but  his  old  face 
was  quite  pale.  He  ate  his  dinner  from  the  force 
of  habit  of  over  seventy  years,  during  which  time  he 


195 


had  always  eaten  his  dinner,  but  he  did  not  taste  it 
consciously. 

He  made  up  his  mind  that  as  soon  as  he  got  up 
from  the  table  he  would  go  over  to  Barney's  and 
consult  him.  After  he  pushed  his  chair  away 
he  was  slipping  out  shyly,  but  Deborah  stopped 
him. 

"  Set  down  an'  finish  that  corn.  I  don't  want  it 
clutterin'  up  the  kitchen  any  longer,"  said  she. 

"  I  thought  I'd  jest  slip  out  a  minute,  mother." 

Deborah  motioned  him  towards  the  chimney-cor 
ner  and  the  baskets  of  corn  with  a  stern  gesture, 
and  Caleb  obeyed.  Ephraim,  too,  settled  down  beside 
his  father,  and  fell  to  shelling  corn  without  being 
told.  He  was  quite  cowed  and  intimidated  by  this 
strange  mood  of  his  mother's,  and  involuntarily 
shrank  closer  to  his  father  when  she  passed  near 
him. 

Caleb  and  Ephraim  both  watched  Deborah  with 
furtive  terror,  as  she  moved  about,  washing  and  put 
ting  away  the  dinner  -  dishes  and  sweeping  the 
kitchen. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  when,  after  the  after- 
dinner  housework  was  all  done,  she  took  her  shawl 
and  hood  from  the  peg,  and  drew  some  old  wool 
socks  of  Caleb's  over  her  shoes.  She  went  out  with 
out  saying  a  word.  Ephraim  waited  a  few  minutes 
after  the  door  shut  behind  her ;  then  he  ran  to  the 
window. 

"  She's  gone  to  Barney's,"  he  announced,  rolling 


196 


great  eyes  over  his  shoulder  at  his  father ;  and  the 
old  man  also  went  over  to  the  \vindow  and  watched 
Deborah  plodding  through  the  snow  up  the  street. 

It  was  not  snowing  so  hard  now,  and  the  clouds 
were  breaking,  but  a  bitter  wind  was  blowing  from 
the  northwest.  It  drove  Deborah  along  before  it, 
lashing  her  skirts  around  her  gaunt  limbs;  but  she 
leaned  back  upon  it,  and  did  not  bend. 

The  road  was  not  broken  out,  and  the  snow  was 
quite  deep,  but  she  went  along  with  no  break  in  her 
gait.  She  went  into  Barney's  yard  and  knocked  at 
his  door.  She  set  her  mouth  harder  when  she  heard 
him  coming. 

Barney  opened  the  door  and  started  when  he  saw 
who  was  there.  "  Is  it  you,  mother  ?"  he  said,  invol 
untarily  ;  then  his  face  hardened  like  hers,  and  he 
waited.  The  mother  and  son  confronting  each  other 
looked  more  alike  than  ever. 

Deborah  opened  her  mouth  to  speak  twice  before 
she  made  a  sound.  She  stood  upright  and  unyield 
ing,  but  her  face  was  ghastly,  and  she  drew  her 
breath  in  long,  husky  gasps.  Finally  she  spoke,  and 
Barney  started  again  at  her  voice. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  after  William  Berry  and  make 
him  marry  Rebecca,"  she  said. 

"  Mother,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  go  after  William  Berry  and  make 
him  marry  Rebecca." 

"  Mother !" 

"  Rebecca  is  gone.     I  turned  her  out  of  the  house 


197 


tliis  mornin'.  I  don't  know  where  she  is.  Go  and 
find  her,  and  make  William  Berry  marry  her." 

"  Mother,  before  the  Lord,  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean  !"  Barney  cried  out.  "  You  didn't  turn  Rebec 
ca  out  of  the  house  in  all  this  storm  !  What  did  you 
turn  her  out  for?  Where  is  she?" 

"  I  don't  know  where  she  is.  I  turned  her  out  be 
cause  I  wouldn't  have  her  in  the  house.  You  brought 
it  all  on  us ;  if  you  hadn't  acted  so  I  shouldn't  have 
felt  as  I  did  about  her  marryin'.  Now  you  can  go  an' 
find  her,  and  get  AVilliam  Berry  an'  make  him  marry 
her.  I  ain't  got  anything  more  to  do  with  it." 

Deborah  turned,  and  went  out  of  the  yard. 

"  Mother !"  Barney  called  after  her,  but  she  kept 
on.  He  stood  for  a  second  looking  after  her  retreat 
ing  figure,  struggling  sternly  with  the  snow-drifts, 
meeting  the  buffets  of  the  wind  with  her  head  up ; 
then  he  went  in,  and  put  on  his  boots  and  his  over 
coat. 

Barney  had  heard  not  one  word  of  the  village  gos 
sip,  and  the  revelation  in  his  mother's  words  had 
come  to  him  with  a  great  shock.  As  he  went  up  the 
hill  to  the  old  tavern  he  could  hardly  believe  that  he 
had  understood  her  rightly.  Once  he  paused  and 
turned,  and  was  half  inclined  to  go  back.  He  was  as 
pure-minded  as  a  girl,  and  almost  as  ignorant;  lie 
could  not  believe  that  he  knew  what  she  meant. 

Barney  hesitated  again  before  the  store  ;  then  he 
opened  the  great  clanging  door  and  went  in.  A 
farmer,  in  a  blue  frock  stiff  with  snow,  had  just  com- 


198 


pleted  his  purchases  and  was  going  out.  William, 
who  had  been  waiting  upon  him,  was  quite  near  the 
door  behind  the  counter.  At  the  farther  end  of  the 
store  could  be  seen  the  red  glow  of  a  stove  and 
Tommy  Ray's  glistening  fair  head.  Some  one  else, 
who  had  shrunk  out  of  sight  when  Barney  entered, 
was  also  there. 

Barney  saw  no  one  but  AVilliam.  He  looked  at 
-him,  and  all  his  bewilderment  gathered  itself  into  a 
point.  He  felt  a  sudden  fierce  impulse  to  spring  at 
him. 

AVilliam  looked  at  Barney,  and  his  face  changed  in 
a  minute.  He  took  up  his  hat,  and  came  around  the 
counter.  "  Did  you  want  to  see  me  ?"  he  said, 
hoarsely. 

"  Come  outside,"  said  Barney.  And  the  two  men 
went  out,  and  stood  in  the  snow  before  the  store. 

"  Where  is  Rebecca  ?"  said  Barney.  He  looked  at 
William,  and  again  the  savage  impulse  seized  him. 
William  did  not  shrink  before  it. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  returned.  His  lips 
were  quite  stiff  and  white,  but  he  looked  back  at 
Barney. 

"  Don't  you  know  where  she  is  ?" 

"  Before  God  I  don't,  Barney.  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"  She  left  home  this  morning.  Mother  turned  her 
out." 

"Turned  her  out!"  repeated  William. 

"  Come  with  me  and  find  her  and  marry  her,  or 


WHERE    IS    REBECCA  ?'  SAID    BAKNEY  " 


199 


I'll  kill  yon,"  said  Barney,  and  lie  lashed  out  sud 
denly  with  his  fist  in  William's  face. 

"  You  won't  need  to,  for  I'U  kill  myself  if  I  don't," 
William  gasped  out.  Then  he  turned  and  ran. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Barney  shouted,  rushing 
after  him,  in  a  fury. 

"  To  put  the  horse  in  the  cutter,"  William  called 
back.  And,  indeed,  he  was  headed  towards  the  barn. 
Barney  followed  him,  and  the  two  men  put  the  horse 
between  the  shafts.  Once  AVilliam  asked,  hoarsely, 
"  Any  idea  which  way  ?"  and  Barney  shook  his  head. 

"  What  time  did  she  go  ?" 

"  Some  time  this  forenoon." 

William  groaned. 

The  horse  was  nearly  harnessed  when  Tommy  Ray 
came  running  out  from  the  store,  and  beckoned  to 
Barney.  "  Rose  says  she  see  her  going  up  the  turn 
pike  this  morning,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "She  was 
up  in  her  chamber  that  looks  over  the  turnpike,  and 
she  see  somebody  goin'  up  the  turnpike.  She  thought 
it  looked  like  Rebecca,  but  she  supposed  it  must  be 
Mis'  Jim  Sloane.  It  must  have  been  Rebecca." 

"  What  time  was  it  ?"  William  asked,  thrusting 
his  white  face  between  them.  The  boy  turned  aside 
with  a  gesture  of  contempt  and  dislike.  "About 
half -past  ten,"  he  answered,  shortly.  Then  he  turned 
on  his  heel  and  went  back  to  the  store.  Rose  was 
peering  around  the  half -open  door  with  a  white, 
shocked  face.  Somehow  she  had  fathomed  the  cause 
of  the  excitement. 


200 


"  We'll  go  up  the  turnpike,  then,"  said  Barney. 
William  nodded.  The  two  men  sprang  into  the  cut 
ter,  and  the  snow  flew  in  their  faces  from  the  horse's 
hoofs  as  they  went  out  the  barn  door. 

The  old  tavern  stood  facing  the  old  turnpike  road 
to  Boston,  but  the  store  and  barn  faced  on  the  new 
road  at  its  back,  and  people  generally  approached  the 
tavern  by  that  way. 

William  and  Barney  had  to  drive  down  the  hill ; 
then  turn  the  corner,  and  up  the  hill  again  on  the 
old  turnpike. 

There  was  not  a  house  on  that  road  for  a  full  mile. 
William  urged  the  horse  as  fast  as  he  could  through 
the  fresh  snow.  Both  men  kept  a  sharp  lookout  at 
the  sides  of  the  road.  The  sun  was  out  now,  and 
the  snow  was  blinding  white ;  the  north  wind  drove 
a  glittering  spray  as  sharp  and  stinging  as  diamond- 
dust  in  their  faces. 

Once  William  cried  out,  with  a  dry  sob,  "  My  God, 
she'll  freeze  in  this  wind,  if  she's  out  in  it !" 

And  Barney  answered,  "  Maybe  it  would  be  better 
for  her  if  she  did." 

William  looked  at  him  for  the  first  time  since  they 
started.  "  See  here,  Barney,"  he  said,  "  God  knows 
it's  not  to  shield  myself — I'm  past  that ;  but  I've 
begged  her  all  summer  to  be  married.  I've  been 
down  on  my  knees  to  her  to  be  married  before  it 
came  to  this." 

"  Why  wouldn't  she  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  oh,  I  don't  know  !     The  poor  girl 


201 


was  near  distracted.  Her  mother  forbade  her  to 
marry  me,  and  held  up  her  Aunt  Rebecca,  who 
married  against  her  parents'  wishes  and  hung  her 
self,  before  her,  all  the  time.  Your  trouble  with 
Charlotte  Barnard  brought  it  all  about.  Her  mother 
never  opposed  it  before.  I  begged  her  to  marry  me, 
but  she  was  afraid,  or  something,  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Can't  you  drive  faster  ?"  said  Barney. 

William  had  been  urging  the  horse  while  he  spoke, 
but  now  he  shook  the  whip  over  him  again. 

Mrs.  Jim  Sloane's  house  was  a  long,  unpainted  cot 
tage  quite  near  the  road.  The  woman  who  lived 
alone  there  was  under  a  kind  of  indefinite  ban  in  the 
village.  Her  husband,  who  had  died  several  years 
before,  had  been  disreputable  and  drunken,  and  the 
mantle  of  his  disgrace  had  seemed  to  fall  upon  his 
wife,  if  indeed  she  was  not  already  provided  with 
such  a  mantle  of  her  own.  Everybody  spoke  slight 
ingly  of  Mrs.  Jim  Sloane.  The  men  laughed  mean 
ingly  when  they  saw  her  pass,  wrapped  in  an  old 
plaid  shawl,  which  she  wore  summer  and  winter,  and 
which  seemed  almost  like  a  uniform.  Stories  were 
told  of  her  dirt  and  shiftlessness,  of  the  hens  which 
roosted  in  her  kitchen.  Poor  Mrs.  Jim  Sloane,  in  her 
blue  plaid  shawl,  tramping  frequently  from  her  soli 
tary  house  through  the  village,  was  a  byword  and  a 
mocking  to  all  the  people. 

When  William  and  Barney  came  abreast  of  her 
house  they  saw  the  blue  flutter  of  Mrs.  Jim  Sloane's 
shawl  out  before,  above  the  blue  dazzle  of  the  snow. 


202 


"  Hullo !"  she  was  crying  out  in  her  shrill  voice, 
and  waving  her  hand  to  them  to  stop. 

William  pulled  the  horse  up  short,  and  the  woman 
came  plunging  through  the  snow  close  to  his  side. 

"  She's  in  here,"  she  said,  with  a  knowing  smile. 
The  faded  fair  hair  blew  over  her  eyes ;  she  pushed 
it  back  with  a  coquettish  gesture ;  there  was  a  bat 
tered  prettiness  about  her  thin  pink-and- white  face, 
turning  blue  in  the  sharp  wind. 

"  When  did  she  get  here  ?"  asked  Barney. 

"This  forenoon.  She  fell  down  out  here,  couldn't 
get  no  farther.  I  came  out  an'  got  her  into  the 
house.  Didn't  know  but  she  was  done  to ;  but  I 
fixed  her  up  some  hot  drink  an'  made  her  lay  down. 
I  s'posed  you'd  be  along."  She  smiled  again. 

William  jumped  out  of  the  cutter,  and  tied  the 
horse  to  an  old  fence -post.  Then  he  and  Barney 
followed  the  woman  into  the  house.  Barney  looked 
at  the  old  blue  plaid  shawl  with  utter  disgust  and  re 
vulsion.  He  had  always  felt  a  loathing  for  the  wom 
an,  and  her  being  a  distant  relative  on  his  father's 
side  intensified  it. 

Mrs.  Sloane  threw  open  the  door,  and  bade  them 
enter,  as  if  to  a  festival.  "  Walk  right  in,"  said  she. 

There  was  a  wild  flutter  of  hens  as  they  entered. 
Mrs.  Sloane  drove  them  before  her.  "  The  hen-house 
roof  fell  in,  an'  I  have  to  keep  'em  in  here,"  she  said, 
and  shooed  them  and  shook  her  shawl  at  them,  until 
they  alighted  all  croaking  with  terror  upon  the  bed 
in  the  corner. 


203 


Then  she  looked  inquiringly  around  the  room. 
"Why,"  she  cried,  "she's  gone;  she  was  settin'  here 
in  this  rockin'-chair  when  I  went  out.  She  must  have 
run  when  she  see  you  comin' !" 

Mrs.  Sloane  hustled  through  a  door,  the  tattered 
fringes  of  her  shawl  flying,  and  then  her  voice,  shrilly 
expostulating,  was  heard  in  the  next  room. 

The  two  men  waited,  standing  side  by  side  near 
the  door  in  a  shamed  silence.  They  did  not  look  at 
each  other. 

Presently  Mrs.  Sloane  returned  without  her  shawl. 
Her  old  cotton  gown  showed  tattered  and  patched, 
and  there  were  glimpses  of  her  sharp  white  elbows 
at  the  sleeves.  *'  She  won't  come  out  a  step,"  she 
announced.  "  I  can't  make  her.  She's  takin'  on  ter 
ribly." 

William  made  a  stride  forward.  "  I'll  go  in  and 
see  her,"  he  said,  hoarsely  ;  but  Mrs.  Jim  Sloane  stood 
suddenly  in  his  way,  her  slender  back  against  the 
door. 

"  No,  you  ain't  goin'  in,"  said  she,  "  I  told  her  I 
wouldn't  let  you  go  in." 

William  looked  at  her. 

"  She's  dreadful  set  against  either  one  of  you 
comin'  in,  an'  I  told  her  you  shouldn't,"  she  said, 
firmly.  She  smoothed  her  wild  locks  down  tightly 
over  her  ears  as  she  spoke.  All  the  coquettish  look 
wras  gone. 

William  turned  around,  and  looked  helplessly  at 
Barney,  and  Barney  looked  back  at  him.  Then  Bar- 


204 


ney  put  on  his  hat,  and  shrugged  himself  more  close 
ly  into  his  great-coat. 

"  I'll  go  and  get  the  minister,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Sloane  thrust  her  chin  out  alertly.  "  Goin' 
to  get  her  married  right  off?"  she  asked,  with  a  con 
fidential  smile. 

Barney  ignored  her.  "  I  guess  it's  the  hest  way 
to  do,"  he  said,  sternly,  to  William;  and  William 
nodded. 

"  Well,  I  guess  'tis  the  best  way,"  Mrs.  Sloane 
said,  with  cheerful  assent.  "I  don't  b'lieve  you 
could  hire  her  to  come  out  of  that  room  an'  go  to 
the  minister's,  nohow.  She's  terrible  upset,  poor 
thing." 

As  Barney  went  out  of  the  door  he  cast  a  look 
full  of  involuntary  suspicion  back  at  William,  and 
hesitated  a  second  on  the  threshold.  Mrs.  Sloane 
intercepted  the  look.  "  I'll  look  out  he  don't  run 
away  while  you're  gone,"  she  said ;  then  she  laughed. 

William's  white  face  flamed  up  suddenly,  but  he 
made  no  reply.  When  Barney  had  gone  he  drew  a 
chair  up  close  to  the  hearth,  and  sat  there,  bent  over, 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  Mrs.  Sloane  sat  dowrn 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  close  to  the  door  of  the  other 
room,  as  if  she  were  mounting  guard  over  it.  She 
kept  looking  at  William,  and  smiling,  and  opening 
her  mouth  to  speak,  then  checking  herself. 

"  It's  a  pretty  cold  day,"  she  said,  finally. 

William  grunted  assent  without  looking  up.  Then 
he  motioned  with  his  shoulder  towards  the  door 


205 


of  the  other  room.  "Ain't  it  cold  in  there?"  he 
half  whispered. 

"  I  rolled  her  all  up  in  my  shawl ;  I  guess  she  won't 
ketch  cold ;  it's  thick,"  responded  the  woman,  effu 
sively,  and  William  said  no  more.  He  sat  with  his 
chin  in  his  hands  and  his  eyes  fixed  absently.  The 
fire  was  smoking  over  a  low,  red  glow  of  coals,  the 
chimney-place  yawned  black  before  him,  the  hearth 
was  all  strewn  with  pots  and  kettles,  and  the  shelf 
above  it  was  piled  high  with  a  vague  household  lit 
ter.  It  had  leaked  around  the  chimney,  and  there 
was  a  great  discolored  blotch  on  the  wall  above  the 
shelf,  and  the  ceiling.  Two  or  three  hens  came  peck 
ing  around  the  kettles  at  William's  feet. 

To  this  young  man,  brought  up  in  the  extreme 
thrift  and  neatness  of  a  typical  New  England  house 
hold,  this  strange  untidiness,  as  he  viewed  it  through 
his  strained  mental  state,  seemed  to  have  a  deeper 
significance,  and  reveal  the  very  shame  and  squalor 
of  the  soul  itself,  and  its  own  existence  and  thoughts, 
by  material  images. 

He  might  from  his  own  sensations,  as  he  sat  there, 
have  been  actually  translated  into  a  veritable  hell, 
from  the  utter  strangeness  of  the  atmosphere  which 
his  thoughts  seemed  to  gasp  in.  William  had  never 
come  fully  into  the  atmosphere  of  his  own  sin  be 
fore,  but  now  he  had,  and  somehow  the  untidy  pots 
and  kettles  on  the  hearth  made  it  more  real.  He 
was  conscious  as  he  sat  there  of  very  little  pity  for 
the  girl  in  the  other  room,  of  very  little  love  for  her, 


206 


and  also  of  very  little  love  or  pity  for  himself;  lie  felt 
nothing  but  a  kind  of  horror.  He  saw  suddenly  tho 
alien  side  of  life,  and  the  alien  side  of  his  own  self, 
which  he  would  always  have  kept  faced  out  towards 
space,  away  from  all  eyes,  like  the  other  side  of  the 
moon,  and  that  was  for  the  time  all  he  could  grasp. 

Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Sloane  volunteered  a  remark, 
but  he  scarcely  responded,  and  once  he  heard  absent 
ly  her  voice  and  Rebecca's  in  the  other  room.  Oth 
erwise  he  sat  in  utter  silence,  except  for  the  low 
chuckle  of  the  hens  and  the  taps  of  their  beaks 
against  the  iron  pots,  until  Barney  came  with  the 
minister  and  the  minister's  wife. 

Barney  had  taken  the  minister  aside,  and  asked 
him,  stammeringly,  if  he  thought  his  wife  would 
come.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  the  Sloane 
woman's  being  a  witness  at  his  sister's  wedding. 
The  minister  and  his  wife  were  both  very  young,  and 
had  not  lived  long  in  Pembroke.  They  looked  much 
alike :  the  minister's  small,  pale,  peaked  face  peered 
with  anxious  solicitude  between  the  folds  of  the 
great  green  scarf  which  he  tied  over  his  cap,  and  his 
wife  looked  like  him  out  of  her  great  wadded  green 
silk  hood,  when  they  got  into  the  sleigh  with 
Barney. 

The  minister  had  had  a  whispered  conference  witli 
his  wife,  and  now  she  never  once  let  her  eyes  rest  on 
cither  of  the  two  men  as  they  slid  swiftly  along  over 
the  new  snow.  Her  heart  beat  loudly  in  her  ears, 
her  little  thin  hands  were  cold  in  her  great  muff. 


207 


She  had  married  very  young,  out  of  a  godly  New 
England  minister's  home.  She  had  never  known 
anything  like  this  before,  and  a  sort  of  general  shame 
of  femininity  seemed  to  be  upon  her. 

When  she  followed  her  husband  into  Mrs.  Sloane's 
house  she  felt  herself  as  burdened  with  shame — -as  if 
she  stood  in  Rebecca's  place.  Her  little  face,  all  blue 
with  the  sharp  cold,  shrank,  shocked  and  sober,  into 
the  depths  of  her  great  hood.  She  stood  behind  her 
husband,  her  narrow  girlish  shoulders  bending  under 
her  thick  mantilla,  and  never  looked  at  the  face  of 
anybody  in  the  room. 

She  did  not  see  William  at  all.  He  stood  up  be 
fore  them  as  they  entered ;  they  all  nodded  gravely. 
Nobody  spoke  but  Mrs.  Sloan e,  vibrating  nervously 
in  the  midst  of  her  clamorous  hens,  and  Barney  si 
lenced  her. 

"We'll  go  right  in,"  he  said,  in  a  stern,  peremp 
tory  tone ;  then  he  turned  to  William.  "  Are  you 
ready  ?"  he  asked. 

William  nodded,  with  his  eyes  cast  down.  The 
party  made  a  motion  towards  the  other  room,  but 
Mrs.  Sloane  unexpectedly  stood  before  the  door. 

"  I  told  her  there  shouldn't  nobody  come  in,"  said 
she,  "  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  you  all  bustin'  in  on 
her  without  she  knows  it.  She's  terrible  upset. 
You  wait  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Sloane's  blue  eyes  glared  defiantly  at  the  com 
pany.  The  minister's  wife  bent  her  hooded  head 
lower.  She  had  heard  about  Mrs.  Sloane,  and  felt  as 


if  she  were  confronted  by  a  woman  from  Revelation 
and  there  was  a  flash  of  scarlet  in  the  room. 

"Go  in  and  tell  her  we  are  coming,"  said  Barney. 
And  Mrs.  Sloane  slipped  out  of  the  room  cautiously, 
opening  the  door  only  a  little  way.  Her  voice  was 
heard,  and  suddenly  Rebecca's  rang  out  shrill  in  re 
sponse,  although  they  could  not  distinguish  the  words. 
Mrs.  Sloane  looked  out,  "  She  says  she  won't  be  mar 
ried,"  she  whispered. 

"  You  let  me  see  her,"  said  Barney,  and  he  took  a 
stride  forward,  but  Mrs.  Sloane  held  the  door  against 
him. 

"  You  can't,"  she  whispered  again.  "  I'll  talk  to 
her  some  more.  I  can  talk  her  over,  if  anybody 
can." 

Barney  fell  back,  and  again  the  door  was  shut  and 
the  voices  were  heard.  This  time  Rebecca's  arose 
into  a  wail,  and  they  heard  her  cry  out,  "  I  won't,  I 
won't  1  Go  away,  and  stop  talking  to  me  !  I  won't ! 
Go  away !" 

William  turned  around,  and  hid  his  face  against 
the  corner  of  the  mantel-shelf.  Barney  went  up  and 
clapped  him  roughly  on  the  shoulder.  "  Can't  you 
go  in  there  and  make  her  listen  to  reason  ?"  he  said. 

O 

But  just  then  Mrs.  Sloane  opened  the  door  again. 
"  You  can  walk  right  in  now,"  she  announced,  smil 
ing,  her  thin  mouth  sending  the  lines  of  her  whole 
face  into  smirking  upward  curves. 

The  whole  company  edged  forward  solemnly.  Mrs. 
Sloane  was  following,  but  Barney  stood  in  her  way. 


209 


"  I  guess  you'd  better  not  come  in,"  he  said,  ab 
ruptly. 

Mrs.  Sloane's  face  flushed  a  burning  red.  "  I  guess," 
she  began,  in  a  loud  voice,  but  Barney  shut  the  door 
in  her  face.  She  ran  noisily,  stamping  her  feet  like 
an  angry  child,  to  the  fireplace,  caught  up  a  heavy 
kettle,  and  threw  it  down  on  the  hearth.  The  hens 
flew  up  with  a  great  clamor  and  whir  of  wings  ;  Mrs. 
Sloane's  shrill,  mocking  laugh  arose  above  it.  She 
began  talking  in  a  high-pitched  voice,  flinging  out 
vituperations  which  would  seem  to  patter  against  the 
closed  door  like  bullets.  Suddenly  she  stopped,  as 
if  her  ire  had  failed  her,  and  listened  intently  to  a 
low  murmur  from  the  other  room.  She  nodded  her 
head  when  it  ceased. 

The  door  opened  soon,  and  all  except  Rebecca 
came  out.  They  stood  consulting  together  in  low 
voices,  and  Mrs.  Sloane  listened.  They  were  de 
ciding  where  to  take  Rebecca. 

All  at  once  Mrs.  Sloane  spoke.  Her  voice  was 
still  high-pitched  with  anger. 

"  If  you  want  to  know  where  to  take  her  to,  I  can 
tell  you,"  said  she.  "  I'd  keep  her  here  an'  welcome, 
but  I  s'pose  you  think  I  ain't  good  enough,  you're 
all  such  mighty  particular  folks,  an'  ain't  never  had 
no  disgrace  in  your  own  families.  "William  Berry 
can't  take  her  to  his  home  to-night,  for  his  mother 
wouldn't  leave  a  whole  skin  on  either  of  'em.  Her 
own  mother  has  turned  her  out,  an'  Barney  can't 

take  her   in.      She's  got  to   go    somewhere   where 
u 


210 


there's  a  woman ;  she's  terrible  upset.  There  ain't 
no  other  way  but  for  you  an'  Mis'  Barnes  to  take 
her  home  to-night,  an'  keep  her  till  William  gets  a 
place  fixed  to  put  her  in."  Mrs.  Sloane  turned  to 
the  minister  and  his  wife,  regarding  them  with  a 
mixture  of  defiance,  sarcasm,  and  appeal. 

They  looked  at  each  other  hesitatingly.  The  min 
ister's  wife  paled  within  her  hood,  and  her  eyes  red 
dened  with  tears. 

"  I  shouldn't  s'pose  you'd  need  any  time  to  think 
on  it,  such  good  folks  as  you  be,"  said  Mrs.  Sloane. 
"There  ain't  no  other  way.  She's  got  to  be  where 
there's  a  woman." 

Mrs.  Barnes  turned  her  head  towards  her  husband. 
"  She  can  come,  if  you  think  she  ought  to,"  she  said, 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  the  party  started.  Will 
iam  led  Rebecca  out  through  the  kitchen — a  muffled, 
hesitating  figure,  whose  very  identity  seemed  to  be 
lost,  for  she  wore  Mrs.  Sloane's  blue  plaid  shawl 
pinned  closely  over  her  head  and  face — and  lifted  her 
into  his  cutter  with  the  minister  and  his  wife.  Then 
he  and  Barney  walked  along,  plodding  through  the 
deep  snow  behind  the  cutter.  The  sun  was  setting, 
and  it  was  bitterly  cold ;  the  snow  creaked  and  the* 
trees  swung  with  a  stiff  rattle  of  bare  limbs  in  the 
wind. 

The  two  men  never  spoke  to  each  other.  The 
minister  drove  slowly,  and  they  could  always  see 
Mrs.  Jim  Sloane's  blue  plaid  shawl  ahead. 


211 


When  they  reached  the  Caleb  Thayer  house, 
Barney  stopped  and  William  followed  on  alone  after 
the  sleigh. 

Barney  turned  into  the  yard,  and  his  father  was 
standing  in  the  barn  door,  looking  out. 

"  Tell  mother  she's  married,"  Barney  sang  out, 
hoarsely.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  road,  and 
home  to  his  own  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BARNEY  went  to  see  Rebecca  the  next  day,  but  the 
minister's  wife  came  to  the  door  and  would  not  ad 
mit  him.  She  puckered  her  lips  painfully,  and  a 
blush  shot  over  her  face  and  little  thin  throat  as  she 
stood  there  before  him.  "  I  guess  you  had  better 
not  come  in,"  said  she,  nervously.  "  I  guess  you 
had  better  wait  until  Mrs.  Berry  gets  settled  in  her 
house.  Mr.  Berry  is  going  to  hire  the  old  Bennett 
place.  I  guess  it  would  be  pleasanter." 

Barney  turned  away,  blushing  also  as  he  stammered 
an  assent.  Always  keenly  alive  to  the  sharne  of  the 
matter,  it  seemed  as  if  his  sense  of  it  were  for  the 
moment  intensified.  The  minister's  wife's  whole  nat 
ure  seemed  turned  into  a  broadside  of  mirrors  tow 
ards  Rebecca's  shame  and  misery,  and  it  was  as  if 
the  reflection  was  multiplied  in  Barney  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

Still,  he  could  not  take  the  shame  to  his  own  nature 
as  she  could,  being  a  woman.  He  looked  back  fur 
tively  at  the  house  as  he  went  down  the  road,  think 
ing  he  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  poor  Rebecca  at  the 
window. 

But  Rebecca  kept  herself  well  hid.  After  William 
had  hired  the  old  Bennett  house  and  established  her 


213 


there,  she  lived  with  curtains  down  and  doors  bolt 
ed.  Never  a  neighbor  saw  her  face  at  door  or  win 
dow,  although  all  the  women  who  lived  near  did 
their  housework  with  eyes  that  way.  She  would  not 
go  to  the  door  if  anybody  knocked.  The  caller 
would  hear  her  scurrying  away.  Nobody  could  gain 
admittance  if  William  were  not  at  home. 

Barney  went  to  the  door  once,  and  her  voice  sound 
ed  unexpectedly  loud  and  piteously  shrill  in  response 
to  his  knock. 

"  You  can't  come  in  !  go  away  !"  cried  Rebecca. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  hard  to  you,"  said 
Barney. 

"  Go  away,  go  away  !"  repeated  Rebecca,  and  then 
he  heard  her  sob. 

"  Don't  cry,"  pleaded  Barney,  futilely,  through  the 
door.  But  he  heard  his  sister's  retreating  steps  and 
her  sobs  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

He  went  away,  and  did  not  try  to  see  her  again. 

Rose  went  to  see  Rebecca,  stealing  out  of  a  back 
door  and  scudding  across  snowy  fields  lest  her  moth 
er  should  espy  her  and  stop  her.  But  Rebecca  had 
not  come  to  the  door,  although  Rose  had  stood  there 
a  long  time  in  a  bitter  wind. 

"  She  wouldn't  let  me  in,"  she  whispered  to  her 
brother  in  the  store,  when  she  returned.  She  was 
friendly  to  him  in  a  shamefaced,  evasive  sort  of  way, 
and  she  alone  of  his  family.  His  father  and  mother 
scarcely  noticed  him. 

"  Much  as  ever  as  she'll  let  me  in,  poor  girl,"  re- 


214 


sponded  William,  looking  miserably  aside  from  his 
sister's  eyes  and  weighing  out  some  meal. 

"  She  wouldn't  let  mother  in  if  she  went  there," 
said  Rose.  She  felt  a  little  piqued  at  Rebecca's  re 
fusing  her  admittance.  It  was  as  if  all  her  pity  and 
generous  sympathy  had  been  thrust  back  upon  her, 
and  her  pride  in  it  swamped. 

"  There's  no  danger  of  her  going  there,"  William 
returned,  bitterly. 

And  there  was  not.  Hannah  Berry  would  have 
set  herself  up  in  a  pillory  as  soon  as  she  would  have 
visited  her  son's  wife.  She  scarcely  went  into  a 
neighbor's  lest  she  should  hear  some  allusion  to  it. 

Rebecca's  father  often  walked  past  her  house  with 
furtive,  wistful  eyes  towards  the  windows.  Once 
or  twice  when  nobody  was  looking  he  knocked  tim 
idly,  but  he  never  got  any  response.  He  always  took 
a  circuitous  route  home,  that  his  wife  might  not  know 
where  he  had  been.  Deborah  never  spoke  of  Re 
becca;  neither  Caleb  nor  Ephraim  dared  mention  her 
name  in  her  hearing. 

Although  Deborah  never  asked  a  question,  and  al 
though  people  were  shy  of  alluding  to  Rebecca,  she 
yet  seemed  to  know,  in  some  occult  and  instinctive 
fashion,  all  about  her. 

When  a  funeral  procession  passed  the  Thayer 
house  one  afternoon  Deborah  knew  quite  well  whose 
little  coffin  was  in  the  hearse,  although  she  could 
scarcely  have  said  that  anybody  had  told  her. 

Caleb  came  to  her  after  dinner,  with  a  strange,  de- 


215 


fiant  air.  "  I  want  a  clean  dicky,  mother ;  I'm  ago- 
in',"  said  lie.  And  Deborah  got  out  the  old  man's 
Sunday  clothes  for  him  without  a  word.  She  even 
brushed  his  hair  with  hard,  careful  strokes,  and  helped 
him  on  with  his  great  -  coat ;  but  she  never  said  a 
word  about  Rebecca  and  her  baby's  funeral. 

"  They  had  some  white  posies  on  it,"  Caleb  volun 
teered,  tremblingly,  when  he  got  home. 

Deborah  made  no  reply. 

"  There  was  quite  a  lot  there,"  added  Caleb. 

"  Go  an'  bring  me  in  some  kindlin'  wood,"  said 
Deborah. 

Ephraim  stood  by,  staring  alternately  at  his  father 
and  mother.  He  had  watched  the  funeral  procession 
pass  with  furtive  interest. 

"  It  won't  hurt  you  none  to  make  a  few  lamp-light 
ers,"  said  his  mother.  "  You  set  right  down  here, 
an'  I'll  get  you  some  paper." 

Ephraim  clapped  his  hand  to  his  side,  and  rolled 
his  eyes  agonizingly  towards  his  mother,  but  she 
took  no  notice.  She  got  some  paper  out  of  the  cup 
board,  and  Ephraim  sat  down  and  began  quirling  it 
into  long  spirals  with  a  wretched  sulky  air. 

Since  his  sister's  marriage  Ephraim  had  had  a 
sterner  experience  than  had  ever  fallen  to  his  lot  be 
fore.  His  mother  redoubled  her  discipline  over 
him.  It  was  as  if  she  had  resolved,  since  all  her  vig 
orous  training  had  failed  in  the  case  of  his  sister, 
that  she  would  intensify  it  to  such  purpose  that  it 
should  not  fail  with  him. 


216 


So  strait  and  narrow  was  the  patli  in  which 
Ephraim  was  forced  to  tread  those  wintry  days,  so 
bound  and  fettered  was  he  by  precept  and  ad 
monition,  that  it  seemed  as  if  his  very  soul  could 
do  no  more  than  shuffle  along  where  his  mother 
pointed. 

A  scanty  and  simple  diet  had  Ephraim,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  not  so  much  from  a  solicitude  for  his 
health  as  from  a  desire  to  mortify  his  flesh  for  the 
good  of  his  spirit.  Ephraim  obeyed  perforce ;  he 
was  sincerely  afraid  of  his  mother,  but  he  had  within 
him  a  dogged  and  growing  resentment  against  those 
attempts  to  improve  his  spirit. 

Not  a  bit  of  cake  was  he  allowed  to  taste.  When 
the  door  of  a  certain  closet  in  which  pound-cake  for 
possible  guests  was  always  kept  in  a  jar,  and  had 
been  ever  since  Ephraim  could  remember,  was  opened, 
the  boy's  eyes  would  fairly  glare  with  desire.  "Jest 
gimme  a  little  scrap,  mother,"  he  would  whine.  He 
had  formerly,  on  rare  occasions,  been  allowed  a  small 
modicum  of  cake,  but  now  his  mother  was  unyield 
ing.  He  got  not  a  crumb ;  he  could  only  sniff  hun 
grily  at  the  rich,  spicy,  and  fruity  aroma  which  came 
forth  from  the  closet,  and  swallow  at  it  vainly  and 
unsatisfactorily  with  straining  palate. 

Ephraim  was  not  allowed  a  soft-stoned  plum  from 
a  piece  of  mince-pie ;  the  pie  had  always  been  ta 
booed.  He  was  not  even  allowed  to  pick  over  the 
plums  for  the  pies,  unless  under  the  steady  watch  of 
his  mother's  eyes.  Once  she  seemed  to  see  him  ap- 


217 


proach  a  plum  to  his  mouth  when  her  back  was  tow 
ards  him. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Ephraim 2"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  sounded  to  the  boy  like  one  from  the  Old 
Testament.  He  put  the  plum  promptly  into  the 
bowl  instead  of  his  mouth. 

"  I  ain't  doin'  nothin',  mother,"  said  he  ;  but  his 
eyes  rolled  alarmedly  after  his  mother  as  she  went 
across  the  kitchen.  That  frightened  Ephraim.  He 
was  a  practical  boy  and  not  easily  imposed  upon,  but 
it  really  seemed  to  him  that  his  mother  had  seen  him, 
after  some  occult  and  uncanny  fashion,  from  the  back 
of  her  head.  A  vague  and  preposterous  fancy  act 
ually  passed  through  his  bewildered  boyish  brain 
that  the  little,  tightly  twisted  knob  of  hair  on  the 
back  of  a  feminine  head  might  have  some  strange 
visual  power  of  its  own. 

He  never  dared  taste  another  plum,  even  if  the 
knob  of  hair  directly  faced  him. 

Every  day  Ephraim  had  a  double  task  to  learn  in  his 
catechism,  for  Deborah  held  that  no  labor,  however 
arduous,  which  savored  of  the  Word  and  the  Spirit 
could  work  him  bodily  ill.  If  Ephraim  had  been  en 
terprising  and  daring  enough,  he  would  have  fairly 
cursed  the  Westminster  divines,  as  he  sat  hour  after 
hour,  crooking  his  boyish  back  painfully  over  their 
consolidated  wisdom,  driving  the  letter  of  their  dog 
mas  into  his  boyish  brain,  while  the  sense  of  them 
utterly  escaped  him. 

There  was  one  whole  day  during  which  Ephraim 


218 


toiled,  laboriously  conning  over  the  majestic  sen 
tences  in  loud  whispers,  and  received  thereby  only  a 
vague  impression  and  maudlin  hope  that  he  himself 
might  be  one  of  the  elect  of  which  they  treated,  be 
cause  he  was  so  strenuously  deprived  of  plums  in 
this  life,  and  might  therefore  reasonably  expect  his 
share  of  them  in  the  life  to  come. 

That  day  poor  Ephraim — glancing  between  whiles 
at  some  boys  out  coasting  over  in  a  field,  down  a  fine 
icy  slope,  hearing  now  and  then  their  shouts  of  glee — 
had  a  certain  sense  of  superiority  and  complacency 
along  with  the  piteous  and  wistful  longing  which  al 
ways  abode  in  his  heart. 

"Maybe,"  thought  Ephraim,  half  unconsciously, 
not  framing  the  thought  in  words  to  his  mind — 
"maybe  if  I  am  a  good  boy,  and  don't  have  any 
plums,  nor  go  out  coasting  like  them,  I  shall  go  to 
heaven,  and  maybe  they  won't."  Ephraim's  poor 
purple  face  at  the  window-pane  took  on  a  strange, 
serious  expression  as  he  evolved  his  childish  tenet 
of  theology.  His  mother  came  in  from  another  room. 
"  Have  you  got  that  learned  ?"  said  she,  and  Ephraim 
bent  over  his  task  again. 

Ephraim  had  not  been  quite  as  well  as  usual  this 
winter,  and  his  mother  had  been  more  than  usually 
anxious  about  him.  She  called  the  doctor  in  finally, 
and  followed  him  out  into  the  cold  entry  when  he 
left.  "  He's  worse  than  he  has  been,  ain't  he  ?"  she 
said,  abruptly. 

The  doctor  hesitated.     He  was  an  old  man  with  a 


219 


moderate  manner.  lie  buttoned  his  old  great-coat, 
redolent  of  drugs,  closer,  his  breath  steamed  out  in 
the  frosty  entry.  "  I  guess  you  had  better  be  a  little 
careful  about  getting  him  excited,"  he  said  at  last, 
evasively.  "  You  had  better  get  along  as  easy  as  you 
can  with  him."  The  doctor's  manner  implied  more 
than  his  words ;  he  had  his  own  opinion  of  Deborah 
Thayer's  sternness  of  rule,  and  he  had  sympathy  with 
Rebecca. 

Deborah  seemed  to  have  an  intuition  of  it,  for  she 
looked  at  him,  and  raised  her  voice  after  a  manner 
which  would  have  become  the  Deborah  of  the  script 
ures. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  she  demanded. 
"  Would  you  have  me  let  him  have  his  own  way  if  it 
were  for  the  injury  of  his  soul?"  It  was  curious 
that  Deborah,  as  she  spoke,  seemed  to  look  only  at 
the  spiritual  side  of  the  matter.  The  idea  that  her 
discipline  was  actually  necessary  for  her  son's  bodily 
weal  did  not  occur  to  her,  and  she  did  not  urge  it  as 
an  argument. 

"  I  guess  you  had  better  be  a  little  careful  and  get 
along  as  easy  as  you  can,"  repeated  the  doctor,  open 
ing  the  door. 

"That  ain't  all  that's  to  be  thought  of,"  said  Deb 
orah,  Avith  stern  and  tragic  emphasis,  as  the  doctor 
went  out. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say,  mother?"  Ephraim  in 
quired,  when  she  went  into  the  room  again.  He 
looked  half  scared,  half  important,  as  he  sat  in  the 


220 


great  rocking-chair  by  the  fire.  He  breathed  short, 
and  his  words  were  disconnected  as  he  spoke. 

His  mother,  for  answer,  took  the  catechism  from 
the  shelf,  and  extended  it  towards  him  with  a  decisive 
thrust  of  her  arm. 

"  It  is  time  you  studied  some  more,"  said  she. 

Ephraim  jerked  himself  away  from  the  proffered 
book.  "  I  don't  want  to  study  any  more  now, 
mother,"  he  whined. 

"  Take  it,"  said  Deborah. 

Caleb  was  paring  apples  for  pies  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hearth.  Ephraim  looked  across  at  him  des 
perately.  "  I  want  to  play  holly-gull  with  father,"  he 
said. 

"  Ephraim  !" 

"  Can't  I  play  holly-gull  with  father  jest  a  little 
while?" 

"  You  take  this  book  and  study  your  lesson,"  said 
Deborah,  between  nearly  closed  lips. 

Ephraim  began  to  weep ;  he  took  the  book  with 
a  vicious  snatch  and  an  angry  sob.  "  Won't  never 
let  me  do  anythiu'  I  want  to,"  he  cried,  convul 
sively. 

u  Not  another  word,"  said  Deborah.  Ephraim 
bent  over  his  catechism  with  half-suppressed  sobs. 
He  dared  not  weep  aloud.  Deborah  went  into  the 
pantry  with  the  medicine-bottle  which  the  doctor  had 
left ;  she  wanted  a  spoon.  Caleb  caught  hold  of  her 
dress  as  she  was  passing  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  she. 


221 


"  Look  here,  jest  a  minute,  mother." 

"  I  can't  stop,  father;  Ephraim  has  got  to  have  his 
medicine." 

"  Jest  look  here  a  minute,  mother." 

Deborah  bent  her  head  impatiently,  and  Caleb 
whispered.  "No,  he  can't;  I  told  him  he  couldn't," 
she  said  aloud,  and  passed  on  into  the  pantry. 

Caleb  looked  over  at  Ephraim  with  piteous  and  help 
less  sympathy.  "  Never  you  mind,  sonny,"  he  said, 
cautiously. 

"  She — makes — "  began  Ephraim  with  a  respon 
sive  plaint;  but  his  mother  came  out  of  the  pantry, 
and  he  stopped  short.  Caleb  dropped  a  pared  apple 
noisily  into  the  pan. 

"  You'll  dent  that  pan,  father,  if  you  fling  the  ap 
ples  in  that  way,"  said  Deborah.  She  had  a  thick 
silver  spoon,  and  she  measured  out  a  dose  of  the  med 
icine  for  Ephraim.  She  approached  him,  extending 
the  spoon  carefully.  "  Open  your  mouth,"  com 
manded  she. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  don't  want  to  take  it !" 

"  Open  your  mouth  !" 

"  Oh,  mother — I  don't — want  to — ta-ke  it !" 

"  Now,  sonny,  I  wouldn't  mind  takin'  of  it.  It's 
real  good  medicine  that  the  doctor  left  you,  an' 
father's  payin'  consid'able  for  it.  The  doctor  thinks 
it's  goin'  to  make  you  well,"  said  Caleb,  who  was 
looking  on  anxiously. 

"  Open  your  mouth  and  take  it !"  said  Deborah, 
sternly.  She  presented  the  spoon  at  Ephraim  as 


222 


if  it  were  a  bayonet  and  there  were  death  at  the 
point. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  whimpered  Ephraim. 

"  Mebbe  mother  will  let  you  have  a  little  taste  of 
lasses  arter  it,  if  you  take  it  real  good,"  ventured 
Caleb. 

"  No,  he  won't  have  any  lasses  after  it,"  said 
Deborah.  "  I'm  a-tendin'  to  him,  father.  Now, 
Ephraim,  you  take  this  medicine  this  minute,  or  I 
shall  give  you  somethin'  worse  than  medicine.  Open 
your  mouth  !"  And  Ephraim  opened  his  mouth  as 
if  his  mother's  will  were  a  veritable  wedge  between 
his  teeth,  swallowed  the  medicine  with  a  miserable 
gulp,  and  made  a  grotesque  face  of  wrath  and  dis 
gust.  Caleb,  watching,  swallowed  -and  grimaced  at 
the  same  instant  that  his  son  did.  There  were  tears 
in  his  old  eyes  as  he  took  up  another  apple  to  pare. 

Deborah  set  the  bottle  on  the  shelf  and  laid  the 
spoon  beside  it.  "  You've  got  to  take  this  every 
hour  for  a  spell,"  said  she,  "  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have 
any  such  work,  if  you  be  sick;  you  can  make  up  your 
mind  to  it." 

And  make  up  his  mind  to  this  unwelcome  dose 
Ephraim  did.  Once  an  hour  his  mother- stood  over 
him  with  the  spoon,  and  the  fierce  odor  of  the  medi 
cine  came  to  his  nostrils;  he  screwed  his  eyes  tight, 
opened  his  mouth,  and  swallowed  without  a  word. 
There  were  limits  to  his  mother's  patience  which 
Ephraim  dared  not  pass.  lie  had  only  vague  ideas  of 
what  might  happen  if  he  did,  but  he  preferred  to  be  on 


223 


the  safe  side.  So  lie  took  the  medicine,  and  did  not 
lift  his  voice  against  it,  although  he  had  his  thoughts. 

It  did  seem  as  if  the  medicine  benefited  him. 
He  breathed  more  easily  after  a  while,  and  his  color 
was  more  natural.  Deborah  felt  encouraged ;  she 
even  went  down  upon  her  stiff  knees  after  her  family 
were  in  bed,  and  thanked  the  Lord  from  the  depths 
of  her  sorely  chastened  but  proud  heart.  She  did 
not  foresee  what  was  to  come  of  it ;  for  that  very 
night  Ephraim,  induced  thereto  by  the  salutary  effect 
of  the  medicine,  which  removed  somewhat  the  re 
striction  of  his  laboring  heart  upon  his  boyish  spirits, 
perpetrated  the  crowning  act  of  revolt  and  rebellion 
of  his  short  life. 

The  moon  was  bright  that  night.  The  snow  was 
frozen  hard.  The  long  hills  where  the  boys  coasted 
looked  like  slopes  of  silver.  Ephraim  had  to  go  to 
bed  at  eight.  He  lay,  well  propped  up  on  pillows, 
in  his  little  bedroom,  and  he  could  hear  the  shouts 
of  the  coasting  boys.  Now  that  he  could  breathe 
more  easily  the  superiority  of  his  enforced  depriva 
tion  of  such  joys  no  longer  comforted  him  as  much 
as  it  had  done.  His  curtain  was  up,  and  the  moon 
light  lay  on  his  bed.  The  mystic  influence  of  that 
strange  white  orb  which  moves  the  soul  of  the  lover 
to  dream  of  love  and  yearnings  after  it,  which  sad 
dens  with  sweet  wounds  the  soul  who  has  lost  it  for 
ever,  which  increases  the  terrible  freedom  of  the 
maniac,  and  perhaps  moves  the  tides,  apparently  in 
creased  the  longing  in  the  heart  of  one  poor  boy  for 


224 


all  the  innocent  hilarity  of  his  youth  which  he  had 
missed. 

Ephraim  lay  there  in  the  moonlight,  and  longed  as 
he  had  never  longed  before  to  go  forth  and  run  and 
play  and  halloo,  to  career  down  those  wonderful 
shining  slants  of  snow,  to  be  free  and  equal  with 
those  other  boys,  whose  hearts  told  off  their  healthy 
lives  after  the  Creator's  plan. 

The  clock  in  the  kitchen  struck  nine,  then  ten. 
Caleb  and  Deborah  went  to  bed,  and  Ephraim  could 
hear  his  father's  snores  and  his  mother's  heavy 
breathing  from  a  distant  room.  Ephraim  could  not 
go  to  sleep.  He  lay  there  and  longed  for  the 
frosty  night  air,  the  sled,  and  the  swift  flight  down 
the  white  hill  as  never  lover  longed  for  his  mis 
tress. 

At  half -past  ten  o'clock  Ephraim  rose  up.  He 
dressed  himself  in  the  moonlight — all  except  his 
shoes ;  those  he  carried  in  his  hand — and  stole  out 
in  his  stocking-feet  to  the  entryway,  where  his  warm 
coat  and  cap,  which  he  so  seldom  wore,  hung.  Eph 
raim  pulled  the  cap  over  his  ears,  put  on  the  coat, 
cautiously  unbolted  the  door,  and  stepped  forth  like 
a  captive  from  prison. 

He  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  put  on  his  shoes, 
tying  them  with  trembling,  fumbling  fingers.  He  ex 
pected  every  minute  to  hear  his  mother's  voice. 

Then  he  ran  down  the  yard  to  the  woodshed.  It 
was  so  intensely  cold  that  the  snow  did  not  yield  to 
his  tread,  but  gave  out  quick  sibilant  sounds.  It 


225 


seemed  to  him  like  a  whispering  multitude  called  up 
by  his  footsteps,  and  as  if  his  mother  must  hear. 

He  knew  where  Barney's  old  sled  hung  in  the 
woodshed,  and  the  woodshed  door  was  unlocked. 

Presently  a  boyish  figure  fled  swiftly  out  of  the 
Thayer  yard  with  a  bobbing  sled  in  his  wake.  He 
expected  every  minute  to  hear  the  door  or  window 
open  ;  but  he  cleared  the  yard  and  dashed  up  the  road, 
and  nobody  arrested  him. 

Ephraim  knew  well  the  way  to  the  coasting-hill, 
which  was  considered  the  best  in  the  village,  although 
he  had  never  coasted  there  himself,  except  twice  or 
thrice,  surreptitiously,  on  another  boy's  sled,  and  not 
once  this  winter.  lie  heard  no  more  shouts;  the 
frosty  air  was  very  still.  He  thought  to  himself 
that  the  other  boys  had  gone  home,  but  he  did  not 
care. 

However,  when  he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  there 
was  another  boy  with  his  sled.  He  had  been  all 
ready  to  coast  down,  but  had  seen  Ephraim  coming, 
and  waited. 

"  Hullo  !"  he  called. 

"  Hullo  !"  returned  Ephraim,  panting. 

Then  the  boy  stared.  "  It  ain't  you,  Ephraim 
Thayer!"  he  demanded. 

"  Why  ain't  it  me  ?"  returned  Ephraim,  with  a  man 
ful  air,  swaggering  back  his  shoulders  at  the  other 
boy,  who  was  Ezra  Ray. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  your  mother  ever  let  you 
out,"  said  Ezra,  in  a  bewildered  fashion.  In  fact,  the 

15 


226 


vision  of  Epliraim  Thayer  out  with  a  sled,  coasting, 
at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  was  startling.  Ezra  re 
membered  dazedly  how  he  had  heard  his  mother 
say  that  very  afternoon  that  Ephraim  was  worse, 
that  the  doctor  had  been  there  last  Saturday,  and 
she  didn't  believe  he  would  live  long.  He  looked  at 
Ephraim  standing  there  in  the  moonlight  almost  as 
if  he  were  a  spirit. 

"  She  ain't  let  me  for  some  time ;  I've  been  sick," 
admitted  Ephraim,  yet  with  defiance. 

"  I  heard  you  was  awful  sick,"  said  Ezra. 

"  I  was ;  but  the  doctor  give  me  some  medicine 
that  cured  me." 

.  Ephraim  placed  his  sled  in  position  and  got  on 
stiffly.  The  other  boy  still  watched.  "She  know 
you're  out  to-night?"  he  inquired,  abruptly. 

Ephraim   looked  up  at  him.     "  S'pose  you  think 
you'll  go  an'  tell  her,  if  she  don't,"  said  he. 

"  No,  I  won't,  honest," 

"  Hope  to  die  if  you  do  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  I  run  out  of  the  side  door." 

"  Both  on  'em  asleep  ?" 

Ephraim  nodded, 

Ezra  Kay  whistled.    "  You'll  get  a  whippin'  when 
your  mother  finds  it  out." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't.    Mother  can't  whip  me,  because  the 
doctor  says  it  ain't  good  for  me.     You  goin'  down  ?" 

**  Can't  go  down  but  once.     I've  got  to  go  home, 
or  mother  '11  give  it  to  me." 


- 


A    BOYISH    FIGURE    FLED    SWIFTLY    OUT   OF   THK    THAYER    YARD" 


227 


"  Does  she  ever  whip  you  ?" 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Mine  don't,"  said  Ephraim,  and  he  felt  a  superi 
ority  over  Ezra  Ray.  He  thought,  too,  that  his  sled 
was  a  better  one.  It  was  not  painted,  nor  was  it  as 
new  as  Ezra's,  but  it  had  a  reputation.  Barney  had 
won  many  coasting  laurels  with  it  in  his  boyhood, 
and  his  little  brother,  who  had  never  used  it  himself, 
had  always  looked  upon  it  with  unbounded  faith 
and  admiration. 

He  gathered  up  his  sled  -  rope,  spurred  himself 
into  a  start  with  his  heels,  and  went  swiftly  down 
the  long  hill,  gathering  speed  as  he  went.  Poor 
Ephraim  had  an  instinct  for  steering ;  he  did  not 
swerve  from  the  track.  The  frosty  wind  smote  his 
face,  his  breath  nearly  failed  him,  but  half-way  down 
he  gave  a  triumphant  whoop.  When  he  reached  the 
foot  of  the  hill  he  had  barely  wind  enough  to  get 
off  his  sled  and  drag  it  to  one  side,  for  Ezra  Ray 
was  coming  down. 

Ezra  did  not  slide  as  far  as  Ephraim  had  done. 
Ephraim  watched  anxiously  lest  he  should.  "  That 
sled  of  yours  ain't  no  good,"  he  panted,  when 
Ezra  had  stopped  several  yards  from  where  he 
stood. 

"  Guess  it  ain't  quite  so  fast  as  yours,"  admitted 
Ezra.  "  That's  your  brother's,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  that  sled  can't  be  beat  in  town.  Mine's 
'bout  as  good  as  any,  'cept  that.  I've  always  heard 


228 


my  brother  say  that  your  brother's  sled  was  the  best 
one  he  ever  see." 

Ephraim  stood  looking  at  his  brother's  old  bat 
tered  but  distinguished  sled  as  if  it  had  been  a  blood- 
horse.  "  Guess  it  can't  be  beat,"  he  chuckled. 

"  No  sir,  it  can't,"  said  Ezra,  lie  started  off  past 
Ephraim  down  the  road,  with  his  sled  trailing  at  his 
heels. 

"  Hullo !"  called  Ephraim,  "  ain't  you  goin'  up 
again  ?" 

"  Can't,  got  to  go  home." 

"Less  try  it  jest  once  more,  an'  sec  if  you  can't 
go  further." 

"  No,  I  can't,  nohow.    Mother  won't  like  it  as  'tis." 

"Whip  you?" 

"'Spectso;  don't  mind  it  if  she  does."  Ezra  brought 
a  great  show  of  courage  to  balance  the  other's  im 
munity  from  danger.  "Don't  mind  nothin'  'bout  a 
little  whippin',"  he  added,  with  a  brave  and  con 
temptuous  air.  Tie  whistled  as  he  went  on. 

Ephraim  stood  watching  him.  He  had  enough 
brave  blood  in  his  veins  to  feel  that  this  contempt 
of  a.  whipping  was  a  greater  thing  than  not  being 
whipped.  He  felt  an  envious  admiration  of  Ezra 
Ray,  but  that  did  not  prevent  his  calling  after  him  : 

"  Ezra !" 

"  What  say  ?" 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  tell  my  mother?" 

"  Didn't  I  say  I  wasn't  ?  I  don't  tell  fibs.  Hope 
to  die  if  I  do." 


229 


Ezra's  brave  whistle,  as  cheerfully  defiant  of  his 
mother's  prospective  wrath  as  the  note  of  a  bugler 
advancing  to  the  charge,  died  away  in  the  distance. 
For  Ephraim  now  began  the  one  unrestrained  hilarity 
of  his  whole  life.  All  by  himself  in  the  white  moon 
light  and  the  keen  night  air  he  climbed  the  long 
hill,  and  slid  down  over  and  over.  lie  ignored  his 
feeble  and  laboring  breath  of  life.  He  trod  upon, 
he  outspeeded  all  infirmities  of  the  flesh  in  his  wild 
triumph  of  the  spirit.  He  shouted  and  hallooed  as 
he  shot  down  the  hill.  His  mother  could  not  have 
recognized  his  voice  had  she  heard  it,  for  it  was  the 
first  time  that  the  boy  had  ever  given  full  cry  to  the 
natural  voice  of  youth  and  his  heart.  A  few  stolen 
races,  and  sorties  up  apple-trees,  a  few  stolen  slides 
had  poor  Ephraim  Thayer  had ;  they  had  been 
snatched  in  odd  minutes,  at  the  imminent  danger  of 
discovery ;  but  now  he  had  the  wide  night  before 
him ;  he  had  broken  over  all  his  trammels,  and  he  was 
free. 

Up  and  down  the  hill  went  Ephraim  Thayer,  hav 
ing  the  one  playtime  of  his  life,  speeding  on  his 
brother's  famous  sled  against  bondage  and  depriva 
tion  and  death.  It  was  after  midnight  when  he 
went  home  ;  all  the  village  lights  were  out ;  the  white 
road  stretched  before  him,  as  still  and  deserted  as  a 
road  through  solitude  itself.  Ephraim  had  never 
been  out-of-doors  so  late  before,  he  had  never  been  so 
alone  in  his  life,  but  he  was  not  afraid.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  anything  in  the  lonely  night,  and  he  was 


not  afraid  of  his  mother  at  home.  He  thought  to 
himself  exultantly  that  Ezra  Ray  had  been  no  more 
courageous  than  he,  although,  to  be  sure,  he  had  not  a 
whipping  to  fear  like  Ezra.  His  heart  was  full  of 
joyful  triumph  that  he  was  not  wholly  guilty,  since 
it  was  the  outcome  of  an  innocent  desire. 

As  he  walked  along  he  tipped  up  his  face  and 
stared  with  his  stupid  boyish  eyes  at  the  stars  paling 
in  the  full  moonlight,  and  the  great  moon  herself 
overriding  the  clouds  and  the  stars.  It  made  him 
think  of  the  catechism  and  the  Commandments,  and 
then  a  little  pang  of  terror  shot  through  him,  but 
even  that  did  not  daunt  him.  He  did  not  look  up 
at  the  stars  again,  but  bent  his  head  and  trudged  on, 
with  the  sled-rope  pulling  at  his  weak  chest. 

When  he  reached  his  own  yard  he  stepped  as 
carefully  as  he  could ;  still  he  was  not  afraid.  He 
put  the  sled  back  in  the  shed ;  then  he  stole  into  the 
house.  He  took  off  his  shoes  in  the  entry,  and  got 
safely  into  his  own  room.  He  was  in  his  night 
gown  and  all  ready  for  bed  when  another  daring 
thought  struck  him. 

Ephraim  padded  softly  on  his  bare  feet  out  through 
the  kitchen  to  the  pantry.  Every  third  step  or  so 
he  stopped  and  listened  to  the  heavy  double  breath 
ing  from  the  bedroom  beyond.  So  long  as  that 
continued  he  was  safe.  He  listened,  and  then  slid 
on  a  pace  or  two  as  noiseless  as  a  shadow  in  the 
moonlight. 

Ephraim  knew  well  where  the  mince -pies  were 


231 


kept.  There  was  a  long  row  of  them  covered  with 
towels  on  an  upper  shelf. 

Epliraim  hoisted  himself  painfully  upon  a  meal- 
bucket,  and  clawed  a  pie  over  the  edge  of  the  shelf. 
He  could  scarcely  reach,  and  there  was  quite  a  loud 
grating  noise.  He  stood  trembling  on  the  bucket 
and  listened,  but  the  double  breathing  continued. 
Deborah  had  been  unusually  tired  that  night;  she 
had  gone  to  bed  earlier,  and  slept  more  soundly. 

Ephraim  broke  a  great  jagged  half  from  the  mince- 
pie  ;  then  replaced  it  with  another  grating  slide. 
Again  he  listened,  but  his  mother  had  not  been 
awakened. 

Ephraim  crept  back  to  his  bedroom.  There  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  devoured  his  pie. 
The  rich  spicy  compound  and  the  fat  plums  melted 
on  his  tongue,  and  the  savor  thereof  delighted  his 
very  soul.  Then  Ephraim  got  into  bed  and  pulled 
the  quilts  over  him.  For  the  first  and  only  occasion 
in  his  life  he  had  had  a  good  time. 

The  next  morning  Ephraim  felt  very  ill,  but  he 
kept  it  from  his  mother.  He  took  his  medicine  of 
his  own  accord  several  times,  and  turned  his  head 
from  her,  that  she  might  not  notice  his  laboring- 
breath. 

In  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  Deborah  went  out. 
She  had  to  drive  over  to  Boltan  to  get  some  sugar 
and  tea.  She  would  not  buy  anything  now  at  Ber 
ry's  store.  Caleb  had  gone  down  to  the  lot  to  cut 
a  little  wood  ;  he  had  harnessed  the  horse  for  her  be- 


fore  lie  went.  It  was  a  cold  day,  and  she  wrapped 
herself  up  well  in  two  shawls  and  a  thick  veil 
over  her  hood.  When  she  was  all  ready  she  gave 
Epbraim  his  parting  instructions,  rearing  over  him 
with  stern  gestures,  like  a  veiled  justice. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "you  listen  to  what  I  tell  you. 
When  your  father  comes  in  you  tell  him  I  want  him 
to  set  right  down  and  finish  parin'  them  apples. 
They  are  spoilin',  an'  I'm  goin'  to  make  'em  into 
sauce.  You  tell  him  to  set  right  down  and  go  to 
work  on  'em  ;  he  can  get  'em  done  by  the  time  I  get 
home,  an'  I  can  make  the  sauce  this  afternoon.  You 
set  here  an'  take  your  medicine  an'  learn  your  cate 
chism.  You  can  study  over  the  Commandments, 
too  ;  you  ain't  got  'em  any  too  well.  Do  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Epbraim.  He  looked  away 
from  his  mother  as  he  spoke,  and  bis  panting  breath 
clouded  the  clear  space  on  the  frosty  window-pane. 
He  sat  beside  the  window  in  the  rocking-chair. 

"  Mind  you  tell  your  father  about  them  apples," 
repeated  his  mother  as  she  went  out. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ephraim.  He  watched  his 
mother  drive  out  of  the  yard,  guiding  the  horse 
carefully  through  the  frozen  ridges  of  the  drive. 
Presently  he  took  another  spoonful  of  his  medicine. 
He  felt  a  little  easier,  but  still  very  ill.  His  father 
came  a  few  minutes  after  his  mother  had  gone.  He 
heard  him  stamping  in  through  the  back  door ;  then 
his  frost-reddened  old  face  looked  in  on  Epbraim. 

"  Mother  gone  ?"  said  he. 


233 


"  She's  jest  gone,"  replied  Epliraim.  His  father 
came  in.  lie  looked  at  the  boy  with  a  childish  and 
anxious  sweetness.  "  Don't  you  feel  quite  as  well  as 
you  did  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Dunno  as  I  do." 

"  Took  your  medicine  reg'lar  ?" 

Ephraim  nodded. 

"  I  guess  it's  good  medicine,"  said  Caleb  ;  "  it  come 
real  high  ;  I  guess  the  doctor  thought  consid'ble  of  it. 
I'd  take  it  reg'lar  if  I  was  you.  I  thought  you  looked 
as  if  you  didn't  feel  quite  so  well  as  common  when 
I  come  in." 

Caleb  took  off  his  boots  and  tended  the  fire. 
Ephraim  began  to  feel  a  little  better ;  his  heart  did 
not  beat  quite  so  laboriously. 

He  did  not  say  a  word  to  his  father  about  paring 
the  apples.  Caleb  went  into  the  pantry  and  came 
back  eating  a  slice  of  mince-pie. 

"  I  found  there  was  a  pie  cut,  and  I  thought 
mother  wouldn't  mind  if  I  took  a  leetle  piece,"  he 
remarked,  apologetically.  lie  would  never  have 
dared  take  the  pie  without  permission  had  his  wife 
been  at  home.  "  She  ain't  goin'  to  be  home  till  arter 
dinner-time,  an'  I  began  to  feel  kinder  gone,"  added 
Caleb.  He  stood  by  the  fire,  and  munched  the  pie 
with  a  relish  slightly  lessened  by  remorse.  "  Don't 
you  want  nothin'  ?"  he  asked  of  Ephraim.  "  Mebbe  a 
little  piece  of  pie  wouldn't  hurt  you  none." 

Caleb's  ideas  of  hygienic  food  were  primitive.  He 
believed,  as  innocently  as  if  he  had  lived  in  Eden  be- 


234 


fore  the  Prohibition,  that  all  food  which  he  liked  was 
good  for  him,  and  he  applied  his  theory  to  all  man 
kind.  He  had  deferred  to  Deborah's  imperious  will, 
but  he  had  never  been  able  to  understand  why  she 
would  not  allow  Ephraim  to  eat  mince-pie  or  any 
thing  else  which  his  soul  loved  and  craved. 

"  No,  guess  I  don't,"  Ephraim  replied.  He  gazed 
moodily  out  of  the  window.  "  Father,"  said  he, 
suddenly. 

"  What  say,  sonny  ?" 

"  I  eat  some  of  that  pie  last  night." 

"  Mother  give  it  to  you  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  clirn  up  on  the  meal-bucket,  an'  got  it  in 
the  night." 

"You  might  have  fell,  an'  then  I  dunno  what 
mother  'd  ha'  said  to  you,"  said  Caleb. 

"  An'  I  did  somethin'  else." 

"  What  else  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  went  out  a-coastin'  after  you  an'  her  was  asleep." 

"You  didn't,  now?" 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"An'  we  didn't  neither  on  us  wake  up?" 

"  You  was  a-snorin'  the  whole  time." 

"  I  don't  s'pose  you'd  oughter  have  done  it,  Ephra 
im,"  said  Caleb,  and  he  tried  to  make  his  tone  se 
vere. 

"I  never  went  a-coastin'  in  my  whole  life  before," 
said  Ephraim  ;  "  it  ain't  fair." 

"  I  dnnno  what  mother  'd  say  if  she  was  to  find  out 
about  it,"  said  Caleb,  and  he  shook  his  head. 


235 


"Ezra  Ray  was  the  only  one  that  was  out  there, 
an'  he  said  he  wouldn't  tell." 

"  Well,  mebbe  he  won't,  mebbe  he  won't.  I  guess 
you  most  hadn't  oughter  gone  unbeknownst  to  your 
mother,  sonny."* 

"  Barney's  sled  jest  beat  Ezra's  all  holler." 

"  It  did,  hey  ?  That  allers  was  a  good  sled,"  re 
turned  the  old  man,  chuckling. 

Caleb  went  into  the  pantry  again,  and  returned 
rattling  a  handful  of  corn.  "  Want  a  game  of  holly- 
gull?"  he  asked.  "I've  got  a  leetle  time  to  spare  now 
while  mother's  gone." 

"  Guess  so,"  replied  Ephraim.  He  dragged  his 
chair  forward  to  the  hearth  ;  he  and  his  father  sat 
opposite  each  other  and  played  the  old  childish 
game  of  holly-gull.  Ephraim  was  very  fond  of  the 
game,  and  would  have  played  it  happily  hour  after 
hour  had  not  Deborah  esteemed  it  a  sinful  waste  of 
time.  When  Caleb  held  up  his  old  fist,  wherein  lie 
had  securely  stowed  a  certain  number  of  kernels  of 
corn,  and  demanded,  "  Holly-gull,  hand  full,  passel 
how  many  ?"  Ephraim's  spirit  was  thrilled  with  a 
fine  stimulation',  of  which  he  had  known  little  in 
life.  If  he  guessed  the  number  of  kernels  right  and 
confiscated  the  contents  of  his  father's  hand,  he  felt 
the  gratified  ambition  of  a  successful  financier  ;  if  he 
lost,  his  heart  sank,  only  to  bound  higher  with  new 
hope  for  the  next  chance.  A  veritable  gambling 
game  was  holly-gull,  but  they  gambled  for  innocent 
Indian-corn  instead  of  the  coin  of  the  realm,  and 


236 


nobody  suspected  it.  The  lack  of  value  of  the 
stakes  made  the  game  quite  harmless  and  unques 
tioned  in  public  opinion. 

The  waste  of  time  was  all  Deborah's  objection  to 
the  game.  Caleb  and  Ephraim  said  not  a  word 
about  it  to  each  other,  but  both  kept  an  anxious  ear 
towards  Deborah's  returning  sleigh-bells. 

At  last  they  both  heard  the  loud,  brazen  jingle 
entering  the  yard,  and  Caleb  gathered  all  the  corn 
together  and  stowed  it  away  in  his  pocket.  Then 
he  stood  on  the  hearth,  looking  like  a  guilty  child. 
Ephraim  went  slowly  over  to  the  window  ;  he  did  not 
feel  quite  so  well  again. 

Deborah's  harsh  "  Whoa !"  sounded  before  the 
door;  presently  she  came  in,  her  garments  radiating 
cold  air,  her  arms  full  of  bundles. 

"  What  you  standin'  there  for,  father  2"  she  de 
manded  of  Caleb.  "  Why  didn't  you  come  out  an' 
take  some  of  these  bundles?  Why  ain't  you  goin' 
out  an'  puttin'  the  horse  up  instead  of  standin'  there 
starin'  ?" 

"  I'm  goin'  right  off,  mother,"  Caleb  answered, 
apologetically ;  and  he  turned  his  old  back  towards 
her  and  scuffled  out  in  haste. 

"  Put  on  your  cap  !"  Deborah  called  after  him. 

She  laid  off  her  many  wraps,  her  hood  and  veil, 
and  mufflers  and  shawls,  folded  them  carefully,  and 
carried  them  into  her  bedroom,  to  be  laid  in  her 
bureau  drawers.  Deborah  was  very  orderly  and 
methodical. 


237 

"Did  you  take  your  medicine?"  she  asked  Eph- 
raim  as  she  went  out  of  the  room. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  he.  He  did  not  feel  nearly 
as  well ;  he  kept  his  face  turned  from  his  mother. 
Ephraim  was  accustomed  to  complain  freely,  but 
now  the  coasting  and  the  mince-pie  had  made  him 
patient.  He  was  quite  sure  that  his  bad  feelings 
were  due  to  that,  and  suppose  his  mother  should 
suspect  and  ask  him  what  he  had  been  doing !  He 
was  also  terrified  by  the  thought  of  the  holly-gull 
and  her  unfulfilled  order  about  the  apple-paring. 
He  sat  very  still;  his  heart  shook  his  whole  body, 
which  had  grown  thin  lately.  He  looked  very  small, 
in  spite  of  his  sturdy  build. 

Deborah  was  gone  quite  a  while ;  she  had  left 
some  work  unfinished  in  her  bedroom  that  morning. 
Caleb  returned  before  she  did,  and  pulled  up  a  chair 
close  to  the  fire.  He  was  holding  his  reddened  fin 
gers  out  towards  the  blaze  to  warm  them  when  Deb 
orah  came  in. 

She  looked  at  him,  then  around  the  room,  in 
quiringly. 

"  Where  did  you  put  the  apples  ?"  said  she  to 
Caleb. 

Caleb  stared  around  at  her.  "  What  apples,  moth 
er  ?"  he  asked,  feebly. 

"  The  apples  I  left  for  you  to  pare.  I  want  to 
put  'em  on  before  I  get  dinner." 

"  I  ain't  heard  nothin'  about  apples,  mother." 

"  Ain't  you  pared  any  apples  this  forenoon  ?" 


238 


"  I  didn't  know  as  you  wanted  any  pared,  mother." 

Deborah  turned  fiercely  on  Ephraim. 

44  Ephraim  Thayer,  look  here  !"  said  she.  Ephraim 
turned  his  poor  blue  face  slowly ;  his  breath  came 
shortly  between  his  parted  lips  ;  he  clapped  one  hand 
to  his  side.  "  Didn't  yon  tell  your  father  to  pare 
them  apples,  the  way  I  told  you  to  ?"  she  demanded. 

Ephraim  dropped  his  chin  lower. 

44  Answer  me !" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  What  have  you  been  a-doin'  of  ?" 

"Playin'." 

"  Playin'  what  ?" 

"  Holly-gull." 

Deborah  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment.  Her 
mouth  tightened ;  she  grew  quite  pale.  Ephraim 
and  Caleb  watched  her.  Deborah  strode  across  the 
room,  out  into  the  shed. 

"  I  guess  she  won't  say  much  ;  don't  you  be  scared, 
Ephraim,"  whispered  Caleb. 

But  Ephraim,  curious  to  say,  did  not  feel  scared. 
Suddenly  his  mother  seemed  to  have  lost  all  her 
terrifying  influence  over  him.  He  felt  very  strange, 
and  as  if  he  were  sinking  away  from  it  all  through 
deep  abysses. 

His  mother  came  back,  and  she  held  a  stout  stick 
in  her  right  hand.  Caleb  gasped  when  he  saw  it. 
"  Mother,  you  ain't  goin'  to  whip  him  ?"  he  cried  out. 

"  Father,  you  keep  still !"  commanded  Deborah. 
44  Ephraim,  you  come  with  me  !" 


239 


She  led  the  way  into  Ephraim's  little  bedroom, 
and  he  stumbled  up  and  followed  her.  He  saw  the 
stick  before  him  in  his  mother's  hand ;  he  knew  she 
was  going  to  whip  him,  but  he  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  disturbed  or  afraid.  Ezra  Ray  could  not  have 
faced  a  whipping  any  more  courageously  than  Eph- 
raim.  But  he  staggered  as  he  went,  and  his  feet 
met  the  floor  with  strange  shocks,  since  he  had  pre 
pared  his  steps  for  those  deep  abysses. 

He  and  his  mother  stood  together  in  his  little 
bedroom.  She,  when  she  faced  him,  saw  how  ill  he 
looked,  but  she  steeled  herself  against  that.  She 
had  seen  him  look  as  badly  before ;  she  was  not  to 
be  daunted  by  that  from  her  high  purpose.  For  it 
was  a  high  purpose  to  Deborah  Thayer.  She  did 
not  realize  the  part  which  her  own  human  will  had 
in  it. 

She  lifted  up  her  voice  and  spoke  solemnly.  Caleb, 
listening,  all  trembling,  at  the  kitchen  door,  heard 
her. 

"  Ephraim,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  have  spared  the 
rod  with  you  all  my  life  because  you  were  sick. 
Your  brother  and  your  sister  have  both  rebelled 
against  the  Lord  and  against  me.  You  are  all  the 
child  I've  got  left.  You've  got  to  mind  me  and  do 
right.  I  ain't  goin'  to  spare  you  any  longer  because 
you  ain't  well.  It  is  better  you  should  be  sick  than 
be  well  and  wicked  and  disobedient.  It  is  better 
that  your  body  should  suffer  than  your  immortal 
soul.  Stand  still." 


240 


Deborah  raised  her  stick,  and  brought  it  down. 
She  raised  it  again,  but  suddenly  Ephraim  made  a 
strange  noise  and  sunk  away  before  it,  down  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor. 

Caleb  heard  him  fall,  and  came  quickly. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  he  sobbed,  "  is  he  dead  ?  What 
ails  him  ?" 

"  lie's  got  a  bad  spell,"  said  Deborah.  "  Help 
me  lay  him  on  the  bed."  Her  face  was  ghastly. 
She  spoke  with  hoarse  pulls  for  breath,  but  she  did 
not  flinch.  She  and  Caleb  laid  Ephraim  on  his  bed; 
then  she  worked  over  him  for  a  few  minutes  with 
mustard  and  hot-water — all  the  simple  remedies  in 
which  she  was  skilled.  She  tried  to  pour  a  little  of 
the  doctor's  medicine  into  his  mouth,  but  he  did  not 
swallow,  and  she  wiped  it  away. 

"  Go  an'  get  Barney  to  run  for  the  doctor,  quick  !" 
she  told  Caleb  at  last,  Caleb  fled,  sobbing  aloud 
like  a  child,  out  of  the  house,  Deborah  closed  the 
boy's  eyes,  and  straightened  him  a  little  in  the  bed. 
Then  she  stood  over  him  there,  and  began  to  pray 
aloud.  It  was  a  strange  prayer,  full  of  remorse,  of 
awful  agony,  of  self-defense  of  her  own  act,  and  her 
own  position  as  the  vicar  of  God  upon  earth  for  her 
child.  "  I  couldn't  let  him  go  astray  too  !"  she 
shrieked  out.  "  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't !  O  Lord, 
thou  knowest  that  I  couldn't  !  I  would — have  lain 
him  upon — the  altar,  as  Abraham  laid  Isaac !  Oh, 
Ephraim,  my  son,  my  son,  my  son !" 

Deborah   prayed  on   and  on.     The  doctor  and  a 


241 


throng  of  pale  women  came  in ;  the  yard  was  full 
of  shocked  and  staring  people.  Deborah  heeded 
nothing ;  she  prayed  on. 

Some  of  the  women  got  her  into  her  own  room. 
She  stayed  there,  with  a  sort  of  rigid  settling  into 
the  spot  where  she  was  placed,  and  she  pleaded  with 
the  Lord  for  upholding  and  justification  until  the 
daylight  faded,  and  all  night.  The  women,  Mrs. 
Ray  and  the  doctor's  wife,  who  watched  with  poor 
Ephraim,  heard  her  praying  all  night  long.  They 
sat  in  grave  silence,  and  their  eyes  kept  meeting 
with  shocked  significance  as  they  listened  to  her. 
Now  and  then  they  wet  the  cloth  on  Ephraim's  face. 
About  two  o'clock  Mrs.  Ray  tiptoed  into  the  pantry, 
and  brought  forth  a  mince-pie.  "  I  found  one  that 
had  been  cut  on  the  top  shelf,"  she  whispered.  She 
and  the  doctor's  wife  ate  the  remainder  of  poor 
Ephraim's  pie. 

The  two  women  stayed  next  day  and  assisted  in 
preparations  for  the  funeral.  Deborah  seemed  to 
have  no  thought  for  any  of  her  household  duties. 
She  stayed  in  her  bedroom  most  of  the  time,  and 
her  praying  voice  could  be  heard  at  intervals. 

Some  other  women  came  in,  arid  they  went  about 
with  silent  efficiency,  performing  their  services  to 
the  dead  and  setting  the  house  in  order ;  but  they 
said  very  little  to  Deborah.  AVhen  she  came  out  of 
her  room  they  eyed  her  with  a  certain  grim  furtive- 
ness,  and  they  never  said  a  word  to  her  about 
Ephraim. 

16 


242 


It  was  already  known  all  over  the  village  that  she 
had  been  whipping  Ephraim  when  he  died.  Poor 
old  Caleb,  when  the  neighbors  had  come  flocking  in, . 
had  kept  repeating  with  childish  sobs,  "Mother 
hadn't  ought  to  have  whipped  him  !  mother  hadn't 
ought  to  have  whipped  him  1" 

"Did  Mrs.  Thayer  whip  that  boy?"  the  doctor 
had  questioned,  sharply,  before  all  the  women,  and 
Caleb  had  sobbed  back,  hoarsely,  "  She  was  jest 
a-whippin'  of  him  ;  I  told  her  she  hadn't  ought  to." 

That  had  been  enough.  "  She  whipped  him,"  the 
women  repeated  to  each  other  in  shocked  pantomime. 
They  all  knew  how  corporal  punishment  had  been 
tabooed  for  Ephraim. 

The  Thayer  house  was  crowded  the  afternoon  of 
the  funeral.  The  decent  black-clad  village  people, 
with  reddening  eyes  and  mouths  drooping  with  mel 
ancholy,  came  in  throngs  into  the  snowy  yard.  The 
men  in  their  Sunday  gear  tiptoed  creaking  across 
the  floors ;  the  women,  feeling  for  their  pocket-hand 
kerchiefs,  padded  softly  and  heavily  after  them, 
folded  in  their  black  shawls  like  mourning  birds. 

Caleb  and  Deborah  and  Barney  sat  in  the  north 
parlor,  where  Ephraim  lay.  Deborah's  hoarse  la 
ments,  which  were  not  like  the  ordinary  hysterical 
demonstrations  of  feminine  grief,  being  rather  a  stern 
uprising  and  clamor  of  herself  against  her  own  heart, 
filled  the  house. 

The  minister  had  to  pray  and  speak  against  it; 
scarcely  any  one  beyond  the  mourners'  room  could 


243 


hear  his  voice.  It  was  a  hard  task  that  the  poor 
young  minister  had.  He  was  quite  aware  of  the 
feeling  against  Deborah,  and  it  required  finesse  to 
avoid  jarring  that,  and  yet  display  the  proper  amount 
of  Christian  sympathy  for  the  afflicted.  Then  there 
were  other  difficulties.  The  minister  had  prayed  in 
his  closet  for  a  small  share  of  the  wisdom  of  Solo 
mon  before  setting  forth. 

The  people  in  the  other  rooms  leaned  forward  and 
strained  their  ears.  The  minister's  wife  sat  beside 
her  husband  with  bright  spots  of  color  in  her  cheeks, 
her  little  figure  nervously  contracted  in  her  chair. 
They  had  had  a  discussion  concerning  the  advisa 
bility  of  his  mentioning  the  sister  and  daughter  in 
his  prayer,  and  she  had  pleaded  with  him  strenuously 
that  he  should  not. 

When  the  minister  prayed  for  the  afflicted  "  sister 
and  daughter,  who  was  now  languishing  upon  a  bed 
of  sickness,"  his  wife's  mouth  tightened,  her  feet 
and  hands  grew  cold.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  own 
tongue  pronounced  every  word  that  her  husband 
spoke.  And  there  was,  moreover,  a  little  nervous 
thrill  through  the  audience.  Oddly  enough,  every 
body  seemed  to  hear  that  portion  of  the  minister's 
prayer  quite  distinctly.  Even  one  old  deaf  man  in 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  kitchen  looked  meaningly 
at  his  neighbor. 

The  service  was  a  long  one.  The  village  hearse 
and  the  line  of  black  covered  wagons  waited  in  front 
of  the  Thayer  house  over  an  hour.  There  had  been 


244 


another  fall  of  snow  the  night  before,  and  now  the 
north  wind  blew  it  over  the  country.  Outside  ghostly 
spirals  of  snow  raised  from  the  new  drifts  heaped 
along  the  road -sides  like  graves,  disappeared  over 
the  fields,  and  moved  on  the  borders  of  distant 
woods,  while  in-doors  the  minister  held  forth,  and  the 
choir  sang  funeral  hyrnns  with  a  sweet  uneven  drone 
of  grief  and  consolation. 

When  at  last  the  funeral  was  over  and  the  people 
came  out,  they  bent  their  heads  before  this  wild 
storm  which  came  from  the  earth  instead  of  the  sky. 

The  cemetery  was  a  mile  out  of  the  village ;  when 
the  procession  came  driving  rapidly  home  it  was 
nearly  sunset,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  people  turned 
from  poor  Ephraim  to  their  suppers.  It  is  only  for 
a  minute  that  death  can  blur  life  for  the  living. 
Still,  when  the  evening  smoke  hung  over  the  roofs 
the  people  talked  untiringly  of  Ephraim  and  his 
mother. 

As  time  went  on  the  dark  gossip  in  the  village 
swelled  louder.  It  was  said  quite  openly  that  Debo 
rah  Thayer  had  killed  her  son  Ephraim.  The  neigh 
bors  did  not  darken  her  doors.  The  minister  and 
his  wife  called  once.  The  minister  offered  prayer 
and  spoke  formal  words  of  consolation  as  if  he  were 
reading  from  invisible  notes.  His  wife  sat  by  in 
stiff,  scared  silence.  Deborah  nodded  in  response; 
she  said  very  little. 

Indeed,  Deborah  had  become  very  silent.  She 
scarcely  spoke  to  Caleb.  For  hours  after  he  had 


245 


gone  to  bed  the  poor  bewildered  old  man  could  hear 
his  wife  wrestling  in  prayer  with  the  terrible  angel 
of  the  Lord  whom  she  had  evoked  by  the  stern 
magic  of  grief  and  remorse.  He  could  hear  her 
harsh,  solemn  voice  in  self-justification  and  agonized 
appeal.  After  a  while  he  learned  to  sleep  with  it 
still  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  his  heavy  breathing  kept 
pace  with  Deborah's  prayer. 

Deborah  had  not  the  least  doubt  that  she  had 
killed  her  son  Ephraim. 

There  was  some  talk  of  the  church's  dealing  with 
her,  some  women  declared  that  they  would  not  go 
to  meeting  if  she  did;  but  no  stringent  measures 
were  taken,  and  she  went  to  church  every  Sunday  all 
the  rest  of  the  winter  and  during  the  spring. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  June  when  the  doctor's 
wife  and  Mrs.  Ray  went  into  Deborah  Thayer's  yard. 
They  paused  hesitatingly  before  the  door. 

"  I  think  you're  the  one  that  ought  to  tell  her," 
said  Mrs.  Ray. 

"  I  think  it's  your  place  to,  seeing  as  'twas  your 
Ezra  that  knew  about'  it,"  returned  the  doctor's  wife. 
Her  voice  sounded  like  the  hum  of  a  bee,  being  full 
of  husky  vibrations ;  her  double  chin  sank  into  her 
broad  heaving  bosom,  folded  over  with  white  plaided 
muslin. 

"  Seems  to  me  it  belongs  to  you,  as  long  as  you're 
the  doctor's  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Ray.  She  was  very 
small  and  lean  beside  the  soft  bulk  of  the  other 
woman,  but  there  was  a  sort  of  mental  uplifting 


246 


about  her  which  made  her  unconscious  of  it.  Mrs, 
Ray  had  never  considered  herself  a  small  woman ;  she 
seemed  always  to  see  the  tops  of  other  women's 
heads. 

The  doctor's  wife  looked  at  her  dubiously,  panting 
softly  all  over  her  great  body.  It  was  a  warm  after 
noon.  The  low  red  and  white  rose-bushes  sprayed 
all  around  the  step-stone,  and  they  were  full  of  roses. 
The  doctor's  wife  raised  the  brass  knocker.  "  Well, 
I'd  just  as  lieves,"  said  she,  resignedly.  "  She'd  ought 
to  be  told,  anyway  ;  the  doctor  said  so."  The  knock 
er  fell  with  a  clang  of  brass. 

Deborah  opened  the  door  at  once.  "  Good-after 
noon,"  said  she. 

"  We  thought  we'd  come  over  a  few  minutes,  it's 
so  pleasant  this  afternoon,"  said  the  doctor's  wife. 

"  Walk  in,"  said  Deborah.  She  aided  them  in 
through  the  kitchen  to  the  north  parlor.  She  always 
entertained  guests  there  on  warm  afternoons. 

The  north  parlor  was  very  cool  and  dark ;  the  cur 
tains  were  down,  and  undulated  softly  like  sails. 
Deborah  placed  the  big  haircloth  rocking-chair  for 
the  doctor's  wife,  and  Mrs.  Ray  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  doctor's  wife  flushed 
red.  Mrs.  Ray's  sharp  face  was  imperturbable.  Deb 
orah,  sitting  erect  in  one  of  her  best  flag-bottomed 
chairs,  looked  as  if  she  were  alone  in  the  room. 

The  doctor's  wife  cleared  her  throat.  "  Mis'  Thay- 
er,"  she  began. 

Deborah  looked  at  her  with  calm  expectation. 


247 


"  Mis1  Thayer,"  said  the  doctor's  wife,  "  Mis'  Ray 
and  I  thought  we  ought  to  come  over  here  this  after 
noon.  Mis'  Ray  heard  something  last  night,  an'  she 
came  over  an'  told  the  doctor,  an'  he  said  you  ought 
to  know — " 

The  doctor's  wife  paused,  panting.  Then  the  door 
opened  and  Caleb  peered  in.  He  bowed  stiffly  to 
the  two  guests;  then,  with  apprehensive  glances  at  his 
wife,  slid  into  a  chair  near  the  door. 

"  Mis'  Ray's  Ezra  told  her  last  night,"  proceeded 
the  doctor's  wife,  "  that  the  night  before  your  son 
died  he  run  away  unbeknown  to  you,  an'  went  slidin' 
down  hill.  The  doctor  says  mebbe  that  was  what 
killed  him.  He  said  you'd  ought  to  know." 

Deborah  leaned  forward ;  her  face  worked  like  the 
breaking  up  of  an  icy  river.  "  Be  you  sure  2"  said 
she. 

"  Ezra  told  me  last  night,"  interposed  Mrs.  Ray. 
"  I  had  a  hard  time  gettin'  it  out  of  him ;  he  promised 
Ephraim  he  wouldn't  tell.  But  something  he  said 
made  me  suspect,  an'  I  got  it  out  of  him.  He  said 
Ephraim  told  him  he  run  away,  an'  he  left  him  there 
slidin'  when  he  came  home.  'Twas  as  much  as  'leven 
o'clock  then  ;  I  remember  I  give  Ezra  a  whippin' 
next  mornin'  for  stayin'  out  so  late.  But  then,  of 
course,  whippin'  Ezra  wa'n't  nothin'  like  whippin' 
Ephraim." 

"  The  doctor  says  most  likely  that  was  what  killed 
him,  after  all,  an'  you'd  ought  to  know,"  said  the 
doctor's  wife. 


248 


"  Be  you  sure  ?"  said  Deborah  again. 

"  Ephraim  wa'n't  to  blame.  He  never  had  no  show ; 
he  never  went  a-slidin'  like  the  other  little  fellers," 
said  Caleb,  suddenly,  out  of  his  corner ;  and  he  sniv 
elled  as  he  spoke. 

Deborah  turned  on  him  sharply.  "  Did  you  know 
anything  about  it  2"  said  she. 

"  He  told  me  on  't  that  mornin',"  said  Caleb  ;  "  he 
told  me  how  he'd  been  a-slidin',  an'  how  he  eat  some 
mince-pie." 

"Eat — some — mince -pie!"  gasped  Deborah,  and 
there  was  a  great  light  of  hope  in  her  face. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor's  wife,  "  if  that  boy  eat 
mince-pie,  an'  slid  down  hill,  too,  I  guess  you  ain't 
much  call  to  worry  about  anything  you've  done,  Mis' 
Thayer.  I  know  what  the  doctor  has  said  right  along." 

The  doctor's  wife  arose  with  a  certain  mild  im- 
pressiveness,  as  if  some  mantle  of  her  husband's  au 
thority  had  fallen  upon  her.  She  shook  out  her  am 
ple  skirts  as  if  they  were  redolent  of  rhubarb  and 
mint.  "  Well,  I  guess  we  had  better  be  going,"  said 
she,  and  her  inflections  were  like  the  doctor's. 

Mrs.  Ray  rose  also.  "  Well,  we  thought  you'd 
ought  to  know,"  said  she. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Deborah. 

She  went  through  the  kitchen  with  them.  When 
the  door  was  shut  behind  them  she  turned  to  Caleb, 
who  had  shuffled  along  at  her  heels.  "  Oh,  father, 
why  didn't  you  tell  me  if  you  knew,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  ?"  she  gasped  out. 


249 


Caleb  stared  at  her.  "  Why,  mother  ?"  he  re 
turned. 

"Didn't  you  know  I  thought  I'd  killed  him,  father  ? 
didn't  you  know  I  thought  I'd  killed  my  son  ?  An' 
now  maybe  I  haven't !  maybe  I  haven't !  O  Lord, 
I  thank  thee  for  letting  me  know  before  I  die ! 
Maybe  I  haven't  killed  him,  after  all !" 

"  I  didn't  s'pose  it  would  make  any  difference," 
said  Caleb,  helplessly. 

Suddenly,  to  the  old  man's  great  terror,  his  wife 
caught  hold  of  him  and  clung  to  him.  He  staggered 
a  little  ;  his  arms  hung  straight  at  his  sides.  "  Why, 
what  ails  you,  mother  ?"  he  stammered  out.  "  I 
didn't  tell  you,  'cause  I  thought  you'd  be  blamin' 
him  for  't.  Mother,  don't  you  take  on  so ;  now  don't !" 

"  I — wish — you'd  go  an'  get  Rebecca  an'  Barney, 
father,"  said  Deborah,  faintly.  She  suddenly  wa 
vered  so  that  her  old  husband  wavered  with  her, 
and  they  reeled  back  and  forth  like  two  old  trees  in 
a  wind. 

"  Why,  what  ails  you,  mother,  what  ails  you  ?" 
Caleb  gasped  out.  lie  caught  Deborah's  arm,  and 
clutched  out  at  something  to  save  himself.  Then 
they  sank  to  the  floor  together. 

Barney  had  just  come  up  from  the  field,  and  was 
at  his  own  door  when  his  father  came  panting  into 
the  yard.  "What  is  it?  what's  the  matter?"  he 
cried  out. 

"  Mother's  fell !"  gasped  Caleb. 

"Fell!  has  she  hurt  her?" 


250 


"  Dunno — she  can't  get  up  ;  come  quick  !" 

As  Barney  rushed  out  of  the  yard  he  cast  a  glance 
up  the  hill  towards  Charlotte's  house  ;  in  every  crisis 
of  his  life  his  mind  turned  involuntarily  to  her,  as  if 
she  were  another  self,  to  be  made  acquainted  with 
all  its  exigencies.  But  when  he  came  out  on  the 
road  he  met  Charlotte  herself  face  to  face ;  she  had 
been  over  to  her  Aunt  Sylvia's. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  mother,"  Barney  said, 
with  a  strange  appeal.  Then  he  went  on,  and  Char 
lotte  was  at  his  side,  running  as  fast  as  he.  Caleb 
hurried  after  them,  panting,  the  tears  running  down 
his  old  cheeks. 

"  Father  says  she's  fell !"  Barney  said,  as  they  sped 
along. 

"  Maybe  she's  only  fainted,"  responded  Charlotte's 
steady,  faithful  voice. 

But  Deborah  Thayer  had  more  than  fainted.  It 
might  have  been  that  Ephraim  had  inherited  from  her 
the  heart-taint  that  had  afflicted  and  shortened  his 
life,  and  it  might  have  been  that  her  terrible  experi 
ences  of  the  last  few  months  would  have  strained  her 
heart  to  its  undoing,  had  its  valves  been  made  of  steel. 

Barney  carried  his  mother  into  the  bedroom,  and 
laid  her  on  the  bed.  lie  and  Charlotte  worked  over 
her,  but  she  never  spoke  nor  moved  again.  At  last 
Charlotte  laid  her  hand  on  Barney's  arm.  "  Come  out 
now,"  said  she,  and  Barney  followed  her  out. 

When  they  were  out  in  the  kitchen  Barney  looked 
in  her  face.  "  It's  no  use,  she's  gone !"  he  said, 


251 


hoarsely.  Charlotte  nodded.  Suddenly  she  put  her 
arms  up  around  his  neck,  and  drew  his  head  down 
to  her  bosom,  and  held  it  there,  stroking  his  cheek. 

"  Oh,  Charlotte,"  Barney  sobbed.  Charlotte  bent 
over  him,  whispering  softly,  smoothing  his  hair  and 
cheek  with  her  tender  hand. 

Caleb  had  gone  for  the  doctor  and  Rebecca  while 
they  tried  to  restore  Deborah,  and  had  given  the 
alarm  on  the  way.  Some  women  came  hurrying  in 
with  white  faces,  staring  curiously  even  then  at  Bar 
ney  and  Charlotte ;  but  she  never  heeded  them,  except 
to  answer  in  the  affirmative  when  they  asked,  in 
shocked  voices,  if  Deborah  was  dead.  She  went  on 
soothing  Barney,  as  if  he  had  been  her  child,  with  no 
more  shame  in  it,  until  he  raised  his  white  face  from 
her  breast  of  his  own  accord. 

"Oh,  Charlotte,  you  will  stay  to-night,  won't  you?" 
he  pleaded. 

"  Yes,  I'll  stay,"  said  Charlotte.  Young  as  Char 
lotte  was,  she  had  watched  with  the  sick  and  sat  up 
with  the  dead  many  a  time.  So  she  and  the  doctor's 
wife  watched  with  Deborah  Thayer  that  night.  Re 
becca  came,  but  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  stay. 
The  next  day  Charlotte  assisted  in  the  funeral  prep 
arations.  It  made  a  great  deal  of  talk  in  the  village. 
People  wondered  if  Barney  would  marry  her  now,  and 
if  she  would  sit  with  the  mourners  at  the  funeral. 
But  she  sat  with  her  father  and  mother  in  the  south 
room,  and  time  went  on  after  Deborah  died,  and 
Barney  did  not  marry  her. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  FEW  days  after  Deborah's  funeral  Charlotte  had  an 
errand  at  the  store  after  supper.  When  she  went  down 
the  hill  the  sun  had  quite  set,  but  there  was  a  clear 
green  light.  The  sky  gave  it  out,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  also  a  green  glow  from  the  earth.  Charlotte 
went  down  the  hill  with  the  evening  air  fresh  and 
damp  in  her  face.  Lilacs  were  in  blossom  all  about, 
and  their  fragrance  was  so  vital  and  intense  that  it 
seemed  almost  like  a  wide  presence  in  the  green  twi- 
light. 

She  reached  Barney's  house,  and  passed  it ;  then 
she  came  to  the  Thayer  house.  Before  that  lay  the 
garden.  The  ranks  of  pease  and  beans  were  in  white 
blossom,  and  there  was  a  pale  shimmer  as  of  a  cob 
web  veil  over  it. 

Charlotte  had  passed  the  garden  when  she  heard  a 
voice  behind  her : 

"  Charlotte !" 

She  stopped,  and  Barney  came  up. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  he. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  I  saw  you  going  by,"  said  Barney.  Then  he 
paused  again,  and  Charlotte  waited. 

"  I  saw  you  going  by,"  he  repeated,  "and — I  thought 


253 


I'd  like  to  speak  to  you.  I  wanted  to  thank  you  for 
what  you  did — about  mother." 

"  You're  very  welcome,"  replied  Charlotte. 

Barney  ground  a  stone  beneath  his  heel.  "  I 
sha'n't  ever  forget  it,  and  —  father  won't,  either," 
he  said.  His  voice  trembled,  and  yet  there  was  a 
certain  doggedness  in  it. 

Charlotte  stood  waiting.  Barney  turned  slowly 
away.  "  Good-night,"  he  said. 

"Good -night,"  returned  Charlotte,  quickly,  and 
she  fairly  sprang  away  from  him  and  down  the  road. 
Her  limbs  trembled,  but  she  held  her  head  up  proud 
ly.  She  understood  it  all  perfectly.  .Barney  had 
meant  to  inform  her  that  his  behavior  towards  her 
on  the  day  his  mother  died  had  been  due  to  a  mo 
mentary  weakness ;  that  she  was  to  expect  nothing 
further.  She  went  on  to  the  store  and  did  her  er 
rand,  then  went  home.  As  she  entered  the  kitchen 
her  mother  came  through  from  the  front  room.  She 
had  been  sitting  at  a  window  watching  for  Charlotte 
to  return  ;  she  thought  Barney  might  be  with  her. 

"  Well,  you've  got  home,"  said  she,  and  it  sound 
ed  like  a  question. 

"  Yes,"  said  Charlotte.  She  laid  her  parcels  on 
the  table.  "  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed,"  she  added. 

"  Why,  it's  dreadful  early  to  go  to  bed,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I'm  tired  ;  I  guess  I'll  go." 

The  candle-light  was  dim  in  the  room,  but  Sarah 
eyed  her  daughter  sharply.  She  thought  she  looked 
pale. 


254 


"  Did  you  meet  anybody  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  there  wasn't  many  folks  out." 

"  You  didn't  see  Barney,  did  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  met  him." 

Charlotte  lighted  another  candle,  and  opened  the 
door. 

"  Look  here,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Well  2"  replied  Charlotte,  with  a  sort  of  despair 
ing  patience. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?     I  want  to  know." 

"  He  didn't  say  much  of  anything.  lie  thanked 
me  for  what  I  did  about  his  mother." 

"  Didn't  he  say  anything  about  anything  else  ?" 

"No,  he  didn't."  Charlotte  went  out,  shielding 
her  candle. 

"  You  don't  mean  that  he  didn't  say  anything,  after 
the  way  he  acted  that  day  his  mother  died  ?" 

"  I  didn't  expect  him  to  say  anything." 

"  lie's  treated  you  mean,  Charlotte,"  her  mother 
cried  out,  with  a  half  sob.  "  He'd  ought  to  be  strung 
up  after  he  acted  so,  huggin'  an'  kissin'  you  right 
before  folk's  face  and  eyes." 

"  It  was  more  my  fault  than  'twas  his,"  returned 
Charlotte  ;  and  she  shut  the  door. 

"  Then  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  your 
self,"  Sarah  called  after  her,  but  Charlotte  did  not 
seem  to  hear. 

"  I  never  see  such  work,  for  my  part,"  Sarah  wailed 
out  to  herself. 

"  Mother,  you  come  in  here  a  minute,"  Cephas  called 


255 


out  of  the  bedroom.  He  Lad  gone  to  bed  soon  after 
supper. 

"Anythin'  new  about  Barney?"  lie  asked,  when 
his  wife  stood  beside  him. 

"  Barney  ain't  no  more  notion  of  comin'  back  than 
he  had  before,  in  spite  of  all  the  talk.  I  never  see 
such  work,"  replied  Sarah,  in  a  voice  strained  high 
with  tears. 

"  I  call  it  pretty  doin's,"  assented  Cephas.  His 
pale  face,  with  its  venerable  beard,  was  closely  set 
about  with  his  white  nightcap.  He  lay  staring  straight 
before  him  with  a  solemnly  reflective  air. 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  brought  up  'lection  that  time, 
father,"  ventured  Sarah,  with  a  piteous  sniff. 

"  If  the  Democratic  party  had  only  lived  different, 
an'  hadn't  eat  so  much  meat,  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  trouble,"  returned  Cephas,  magisterially. 
"If  you  go  far  enough,  you'll  always  get  back  to 
that.  A  man  is  what  he  puts  into  his  rnouth.  Meat 
victuals  is  at  the  bottom  of  democracy.  If  there 
wa'n't  any  meat  eat  there  wouldn't  be  any  Democratic 
party,  an'  there  wouldn't  be  any  wranglin'  in  the  state. 
There'd  be  one  party,  jest  as  there'd  ought  to  be." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  brought  it  up,  father,"  Sarah 
lamented  again;  "it's  most  killin'  me." 

"  If  we  hadn't  both  of  us  been  eatin'  so  much  an 
imal  food  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  trouble,"  re 
peated  Cephas. 

"  Well,  I  dunno  much  about  animal  food,  but  1 
know  I'm  about  discouraged,"  said  Sarah.  And  she 


256 

went  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  sat  down  in  the  rock 
ing-chair  and  cried  a  long  time,  with  her  apron  over 
her  face.  Her  heartache  was  nearly  as  sore  as  her 
daughter's  up-stairs. 

Charlotte  did  not  speak  to  Barney  again  all  sum 
mer — indeed,  she  scarcely  ever  saw  him.  She  had  an 
occasional  half-averted  glimpse  of  his  figure  across 
the  fields,  and  that  was  all.  Barney  had  gone  back 
to  the  old  house  to  live  with  his  father,  and  remained 
there  through  the  summer  and  fall ;  but  Caleb  died 
in  November.  He  had  never  been  the  same  since 
Deborah's  death  ;  whether,  like  an  old  tree  whose 
roots  are  no  longer  so  firm  in  the  earth  that  they  can 
withstand  every  wind  of  affliction,  the  shock  itself 
had  shaken  him  to  his  fall,  or  the  lack  of  that  strange 
wontedness  which  takes  the  place  of  early  love  and 
passion  had  enfeebled  him,  no  one  could  tell.  He 
had  seemed  to  simply  stare  at  life  from  a  sunny 
place  on  a  stone-wall  or  a  door-step  all  summer. 

When  the  autumn  set  in  he  sat  in  his  old  chair 
by  the  fire.  Caleb  had  always  felt  cold  since  Deb 
orah  died.  When  the  bell  tolled  off  his  years,  one 
morning  in  November,  nobody  felt  surprised.  People 
had  said  to  each  other  for  some  time  that  Caleb 
Thayer  was  failing. 

Barney,  after  his  father  died,  went  back  to  his  own 
forlorn  new  house  to  live,  and  his  sister  Rebecca  and 
her  husband  came  to  live  in  the  old  one.  Rebecca 
went  to  meeting  now  every  Sunday,  wearing  her 
mother's  black  shawl  and  a  black  ribbon  on  her  bon- 


257 


net,  and  sitting  in  her  mother's  place  in  the  Thayer 
pew.  She  never  went  anywhere  else,  her  rosy  color 
had  gone,  and  she  looked  old  and  haggard. 

Barney  went  into  his  sister's  now  and  then  of  a 
Sunday  night,  and  sat  with  her  and  William  an  hour 
or  so.  He  and  William  would  sometimes  warm  into 
quite  an  animated  discussion  over  politics  or  theology, 
while  Rebecca  sat  silently  by.  Barney  went  nowhere 
else,  not  even  to  meeting.  Sundays  he  used  to 
watch  furtively  for  Charlotte  to  go  past  with  her 
father  and  mother.  Quite  often  Sylvia  Crane  used 
to  appear  from  her  road  and  join  them,  and  walk 
along  with  Charlotte.  Barney  used  to  look  at  her 
moving  down  the  road  at  Charlotte's  side,  as  at  the 
merest  supernumerary  on  his  own  tragic  stage.  But 
every  tragedy  has  its  multiplying  glass  to  infinity, 
and  every  actor  has  his  own  tragedy.  Sylvia  Crane 
that  winter,  all  secretly  and  silently,  was  acting  her 
own  principal  role  in  hers.  She  had  quite  come  to 
the  end  of  her  small  resources,  and  nobody,  except 
the  selectmen  of  Pembroke,  knew  it.  They  were 
three  saturnine,  phlegmatic,  elderly  men,  old  Squire 
Payne  being  the  chairman,  and  they  kept  her  secret 
well.  Sylvia  waylaid  them  in  by-places,  she  stole 
around  to  the  back  door  of  Squire  Payne's  house  by 
night,  she  conducted  herself  as  if  it  were  a  guilty 
intrigue,  and  all  to  keep  her  poverty  hid  as  long  as 
may  be. 

Old  Squire  Payne  was  a  widower,  a  grave  old 
man  of  few  words.  He  advanced  poor  Sylvia  meagre 

17 


258 


moneys  on  her  little  lands,  and  he  told  nobody. 
There  came  a  day  when  he  gave  her  the  last  dollar 
upon  her  New  England  soil,  full  of  old  plough-ridges 
and  dried  weeds  and  stones. 

Sylvia  went  home  with  it  in  the  pocket  of  her 
quilted  petticoat  under  her  dress  skirt.  She  kept 
feeling  of  it  to  see  if  it  were  safe  as  she  walked 
along.  The  snow  was  quite  deep,  the  road  was  not 
well  broken  out,  and  she  plodded  forward  with  bent 
head,  her  black  skirt  gathering  a  crusty  border  of 
snow. 

She  had  to  pass  Richard  Alger's  house,  but  she 
never  looked  up.  It  was  six  o'clock,  and  quite  dark ; 
it  had  been  dark  when  she  set  out  at  five.  The 
housewives  were  preparing  supper  ;  there  was  a  smell 
of  burning  pine-wood  in  the  air,  and  now  and  then 
a  savory  scent  of  frying  meat.  Sylvia  had  smelled 
brewing  tea  and  baking  bread  in  Squire  Payne's 
house,  and  she  had  heard  old  Margaret,  the  Scotch 
woman  who  had  lived  with  the  squire's  family  ever 
since  she  could  remember,  stepping  around  in  another 
room.  Old  Margaret  was  almost  the  only  servant, 
the  only  regular  and  permanent  servant,  in  Pembroke, 
and  she  enjoyed  a  curious  sort  of  menial  distinction : 
she  dressed  well,  wore  a  handsome  cashmere  shawl 
which  had  come  from  Scotland,  and  held  her  head 
high  in  the  squire's  pew.  People  saluted  her  with 
respect,  and  her  isolation  of  inequality  gave  her  a 
reversed  dignity. 

Sylvia  had   hoped   Margaret  would  not  come   in 


259 


while  she  sat  with  the  squire.  She  was  afraid  of 
her  eyes,  which  flashed  keen  like  a  man's  under  shag 
gy  brows.  She  did  not  want  her  to  see  the  squire 
counting  out  the  money  from  his  leather  purse,  al 
though  she  knew  that  Margaret  would  keep  her  own 
counsel. 

She  had  been  glad  enough  to  escape  and  not  see 
her  appear  behind  the  bulk  of  the  squire  in  the  door 
way.  Squire  Payne  was  full  of  laborious  courtesy, 
and  always  himself  aided  Sylvia  to  the  door  when 
she  came  for  money,  and  that  always  alarmed  her. 
She  would  drop  a  meek  courtesy  on  trembling  knees 
and  hurry  away. 

Sylvia  had  almost  reached  the  old  road  leading  to 
her  own  house,  when  she  saw  a  figure  advancing 
towards  her  through  the  dusk.  She  saw  it  was  a 
woman  by  the  wide  swing  of  the  skirts,  and  trembled. 
She  felt  a  presentiment  as  to  who  it  was.  She  held 
her  head  down  and  well  to  one  side,  she  bent  over 
and  tried  to  hurry  past,  but  the  figure  stopped. 

"  Is  that  you,  Sylvy  Crane  ?"  said  her  sister,  Han 
nah  Berry. 

Sylvia  did  not  stop.  "  Yes,  it's  me,"  she  stam 
mered.  "Good-evenin',  Hannah." 

She  tried  to  pass,  but  Hannah  stood  in  her  way. 
"  What  you  hurryin'  so  for  ?"  she  asked,  sharply  ; 
"  where  you  been  ?" 

"  Where  you  been  ?"  returned  Sylvia,  trembling. 

"  Up  to  Sarah's.  Charlotte,  she's  gone  down  to 
Rebecca's.  She's  terrible  thick  with  Rebecca.  Well, 


260 


I've  been  to  see  Rebecca;  an'  Rose,  she's  been,  an'  I 
ain't  nothin'  to  say.  William  has  got  her  for  a  wife, 
an'  we've  got  to  hold  up  our  heads  before  folks ;  an' 
when  it  comes  right  down  to  it,  there's  a  good  many 
folks  can't  say  much.  If  Charlotte  Barnard  wants 
to  be  thick  with  Rebecca,  she  can.  Her  mother 
won't  say  nothin'.  She  always  was  as  easy  as  old 
Tilly;  an'  as  for  Cephas,  he's  either  eatin'  grass,  or 
he  ain't  eatin'  grass,  an'  that's  all  he  cares  about, 
unless  he  gets  stirred  up  about  politics,  the  way 
he  did  with  Barney  Thayer.  I  dunno  but  Charlotte 
thinks  she'll  get  him  back  again  goin'  to  see  Re 
becca.  I  miss  my  guess  but  what  she  sees  him 
there  sometimes.  I  wouldn't  have  a  daughter  of 
mine  chasm'  a  fellar  that  had  give  her  the  mitten ; 
but  Charlotte  ain't  got  no  pride,  nor  her  mother, 
neither.  -  Where  did  you  say  you'd  been,  trapesin' 
through  the  snow  ?" 

"  Has  Rose  got  her  things  most  done  ?"  asked 
Sylvia,  desperately.  Distress  was  awakening  duplic 
ity  in  her  simple,  straightforward  heart.  All  Han 
nah  Berry's  thoughts  slid,  as  it  were,  in  well-greased 
grooves  ;  only  give  one  a  starting  push  and  it  went  on 
indefinitely  and  left  all  others  behind,  and  her  sister 
Sylvia  knew  it. 

"  Well,  she's  got  'em  pretty  near  done,"  replied 
Hannah  Berry.  "  Her  underclothes  are  all  done, 
an'  the  quilts;  the  weddin'-dress  ain't  bought  yet, 
an'  she's  got  to  have  a  mantilla.  Do  you  know 
Charlotte  ain't  never  wore  that  handsome  man- 


261 


tilla  she  had  when  she  was  expectin'  to  marry  Bar 
ney  ?" 

"  Ain't  she  2" 

"  No,  she  ain't,  nor  her  silk  gown  neither.  I  said 
all  I  darsed  to.  I  thought  mebbe  she  or  Sarah  would 
offer ;  they  both  of  'em  know  how  hard  it  is  to  get 
anything  out  of  Silas ;  but  they  didn't,  an'  I  wa'n't 
goin'  to  ask,  nohow.  I  shall  get  a  new  silk  an'  a 
mantilla  for  Rose,  an'  not  be  beholden  to  nobody,  if 
I  have  to  sell  the  spoons  I  had  when  I  was  mar 
ried." 

"  I  don't  s'pose  they  have  much  to  do  with,"  said 
Sylvia.  She  began  to  gradually  edge  past  her  sister. 

"  Of  course  they  haven't ;  I  know  that  jest  as  well 
as  you  do.  But  if  Charlotte  ain't  goin'  to  get  married 
she  don't  want  any  weddin'-gown  an'  mantilla,  an' 
she  won't  ever  get  married.  She  let  Thomas  Payne 
slip,  an'  there  ain't  nobody  else  I  can  think  of  for  her. 
If  she  ain't  goin'  to  want  weddin'-clothes,  I  don't  see 
why  she  an'  her  mother  would  be  any  poorer  for 
givin'  hers  away.  'Twouldn't  cost  'em  any  more 
than  to  let  'em  lay  in  the  chest.  Well,  I've  got  to  go 
home ;  it's  supper-time.  Where  did  you  say  you'd 
been,  Sylvy  ?" 

Sylvia  was  well  past  her  sister ;  she  pretended  not 
to  hear.  "  You  ain't  been  over  for  quite  a  spell," 
she  called  back,  faintly. 

"  I  know  I  ain't,"  returned  Hannah.  "  I've  been 
tellin'  Rose  we'd  come  over  to  tea  some  afternoon 
before  she  was  married." 


262 


"  Do,"  said  Sylvia,  but  the  cordiality  in  her  voice 
seemed  to  overweigh  it. 

"  Well,  mebbe  we'll  come  over  to-morrow,"  said 
Hannah.  "  We've  got  some  pillow-slips  to  trim,  an' 
we  can  bring  them.  You'd  better  ask  Sarah  an' 
Charlotte,  if  she  can  stay  away  from  Rebecca  Thay- 
er's  long  enough." 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Sylvia,  feebly,  over  her  shoul 
der. 

"  We'll  come  early,"  said  Hannah.  Then  the  sis 
ters  sped  apart  through  the  early  winter  darkness. 
Poor  Sylvia  fairly  groaned  out  loud  when  her  sister 
was  out  of  hearing  and  she  had  turned  the  corner  of 
the  old  road. 

"What  shall  I  do?  what  shall  I  do?"  she  mut 
tered. 

Her  sisters  to  tea  meant  hot  biscuits  and  plum 
sauce  and  pie  and  pound-cake  and  tea.  Sylvia  had 
yet  a  little  damson  sauce  at  the  bottom  of  a  jar,  al 
though  she  had  not  preserved  last  year,  for  lack  of 
sugar  ;  but  hot  biscuits  and  pie,  the  pound-cake  and 
tea  would  have  to  be  provided. 

She  felt  again  of  the  little  money -store  in  her 
pocket ;  that  was  all  that  stood  between  her  and  the 
poor-house  ;  every  penny  was  a  barrier  and  had  its 
carefully  calculated  value.  This  outlay  would  reduce 
terribly  her  little  period  of  respite  and  independence  ; 
yet  she  hesitated  as  little  as  Fouquet  planning  the 
splendid  entertainment,  which  would  ruin  him,  for 
Louis  XIII. 


263 


Her  sisters  and  nieces  must  come  to  tea ;  and  all 
the  food,  which  was  the  village  fashion  and  as  ab-, 
solute  in  its  way  as  court  etiquette,  must  be  provided. 

"They'll  suspect  if  I  don't,"  said  Sylvia  Crane. 

She  rolled  away  the  stone  from  the  door  and  en 
tered  her  solitary  house.  She  lighted  her  candle 
and  prepared  for  bed.  She  did  not  get  any  supper. 
She  said  to  herself  with  a  sudden  fierceness,  which 
came  over  her  at  times  —  a  mild  impulse  of  rebellion 
which  indicated  perhaps  some  strain  from  far-off, 
untempered  ancestors,  which  had  survived  New  Eng 
land  generations — that  she  did  not  care  if  she  never 
ate  supper  again. 

"  They're  all  com  in1  troopin'  in  here  to-morrow,  an' 
it's  goin'  to  take  about  all  the  little  I've  got  left  to 
get  victuals  for  'em,  an'  I've  got  to  go  without  to-night 
if  I  starve!"  she  cried  out  quite  loud  and  defiantly,  as 
if  her  hard  providence  lurked  within  hearing  in  some 
dark  recess  of  the  room. 

She  raked  ashes  over  the  coals  in  the  fireplace. 
"  I'll  go  to  bed  an'  save  the  fire,  too,"  she  said  ;  "  it  '11 
take  about  all  the  wood  I've  got  left  to-morrow.  I've 
got  to  heat  the  oven.  Might  as  well  go  to  bed,  an' 
lay  there  forever,  anyway.  If  I  stayed  up  till  dooms 
day  nobody  'd  come." 

Sylvia  set  the  shovel  back  with  a  vicious  clatter ; 
then  she  struck  out  —  like  a  wilful  child  who  hurts 
itself  because  of  its  rage  and  impotent  helplessness 
to  hurt  aught  else  —  her  thin,  red  hand  against  the 
bricks  of  the  chimney.  She  looked  at  the  bruises 


264 


on  it  with  bitter  exultation,  as  if  she  saw  in  them 
some  evidence  of  her  own  freedom  and  power,  even 
to  her  own  hurt. 

When  she  went  to  bed  she  stowed  away  her  money 
under  the  feather-bed.  She  could  not  go  to  sleep. 
Some  time  in  the  night  a  shutter  in  another  room 
up-stairs  banged.  She  got  up,  lighted  the  candle, 
and  trod  over  the  icy  floors  to  the  room  relentlessly 
with  her  bare  feet.  There  was  a  pane  of  glass  broken 
behind  the  shutter,  and  the  wind  had  loosened  the 
fastening.  Svlvia  forced  the  shutter  back ;  in  a 
strange  rage  she  heard  another  pane  of  glass  crack. 
"  I  don't  care  if  every  pane  of  glass  in  the  window  is 
broken,"  she  muttered,  as  she  hooked  the  fastening 
with  angry,  trembling  fingers. 

Her  thin  body  in  its  cotton  night-gown,  cramped 
with  long  rigors  of  cold,  her  delicate  face  reddened 
as  if  before  a  fire,  her  jaws  felt  almost  locked  as  she 
went  through  the  deadly  cold  of  the  lonely  house 
back  to  bed  ;  but  that  strange  rage  in  her  heart  en 
abled  her  to  defy  it,  and  awakened  within  her  some 
thing  like  blasphemy  against  life  and  all  the  condi 
tions  thereof,  but  never  against  Richard  Alger.  She 
never  felt  one  throb  of  resentment  against  him.  She 
even  wondered,  when  she  was  back  in  bed,  if  he  had 
bedclothing  enough,  if  the  quilts  and  bed-puffs  that 
his  mother  had  left  were  not  worn  out;  her  own 
were  very  thin. 

The  next  day  Sylvia  heated  her  brick  oven;  she 
went  to  the  store  and  bought  materials,  and  made 


2G5 


pound-cake  and  pies.  While  they  were  baking  she 
ran  over  and  invited  Charlotte  and  her  mother.  She 
did  not  see  Cephas  ;  he  had  gone  to  draw  some  wood. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  him  come,  too,"  she  said,  as  she 
went  out;  "  but  I  dunno  as  he'd  eat  anything  I've  got 
for  tea." 

"  Land  !  he  eats  anything  when  he  goes  out  any 
where  to  tea,"  replied  Mrs.  Barnard.  "  He  was  over 
to  Hannah's  a  while  ago,  an'  he  eat  everything.  He 
eats  pie-crust  with  shortenin'  now,  anyway.  He  got 
so  he  couldn't  stan'  it  without.  I  guess  he'd  like  to 
come.  He'll  have  to  draw  wood  some  this  afternoon, 
but  he  can  come  in  time  for  tea.  I'll  lay  out  his 
clothes  on  the  bed  for  him." 

"  Well,  have  him  come,  then,"  said  Sylvia.  Sylvia 
was  nearly  out  of  the  yard  when  Charlotte  called 
after  her :  "  Don't  you  want  me  to  come  over  and 
help  you,  Aunt  Sylvia  ?"  she  called  out.  She  stood 
in  the  door  with  her  apron  flying  out  in  the  wind 
like  a  blue  flag. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  replied  Sylvia ;  "  I  don't  need 
any  help.  I  ain't  got  much  to  do." 

"  I  think  Aunt  Sylvia  looks  sick,"  Charlotte  said 
to  her  mother  when  she  went  in. 

"  I  thought  she  looked  kind  of  peaked,"  said  Sarah. 
But  neither  of  them  dreamed  of  the  true  state  of 
affairs:  how  poor  Sylvia  Crane,  half-starved  and  half- 
frozen  in  heart  and  stomach,  was  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy  of  all  her  little  worldly  possessions. 

Sylvia's  sisters,  practical  enough  in  other  respects, 


266 


were  singularly  ignorant  and  incompetent  concerning 
any  property  except  the  few  dollars  and  cents  in  their 
own  purses. 

They  had  always  supposed  Sylvia  had  enough  to 
live  on,  as  long  as  she  lived  at  all.  They  had  a  com 
fortable  sense  of  generosity  and  self-sacrifice,  since 
they  had  let  her  have  all  the  old  homestead  after  her 
mother's  death  without  a  word,  and  even  against  cov 
ert  remonstrances  on  the  parts  of  their  husbands. 

Silas  Berry  had  once  said  out  quite  openly  to  his 
wife  and  Sarah  Barnard  :  "  That  will  had  ought  to  be 
broke,  accordin'  to  my  way  of  thinkin',"  and  Hannah 
had  returned  with  spirit :  "  It  won't  ever  be  broke 
unless  it's  against  my  will,  Silas  Berry.  I  know  it 
seems  considerable  for  Sylvy  to  have  it  all,  but  she's 
took  care  of  mother  all  those  years,  an'  I  don't  be- 
grutch  it  to  her,  an'  she's  a-goin'  to  have  it.  I  don't 
much  believe  Richard  Alger  will  ever  have  her  now 
she's  got  so  old,  an'  she'd  ought  to  have  enough  to 
live  on  the  rest  of  her  life  an'  keep  her  comfortable." 

Therefore  Sylvia's  sisters  had  a  conviction  that  she 
was  comfortably  provided  with  worldly  gear.  Mrs. 
Berry  was  even  speculating  upon  the  probability  of 
her  giving  Rose  something  wherewith  to  begin  house 
keeping  when  her  marriage  with  Tommy  Ray  took 
place. 

The  two  sisters,  with  their  daughters,  came  early 
that  afternoon.  Mrs.  Berry  arid  Rose  sewed  knitted 
lace  on  pillow-slips;  Mrs.  Barnard  and  Charlotte 
were  making  new  shirts  for  Cephas ;  Charlotte  sat 


267 


by  the  window  and  set  beautiful  stitches  in  her 
father's  linen  shirt-bosoms,  while  her  aunt  Hannah's 
tongue  pricked  her  ceaselessly  as  with  small  goading 
thorns. 

"  I  s'pose  this  seems  kind  of  natural  to  you,  don't 
it,  Charlotte,  gettin'  pillow  -  slips  ready  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Berry. 

"  I  don't  know  but  it  does,"  answered  Charlotte, 
never  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work.  Her  mother 
flushed  angrily.  She  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to 
speak,  then  she  shut  it  again  hard. 

"  Let  me  see,  how  many  did  you  make  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Berry. 

"  She  made  two  dozen  pair,"  Charlotte's  mother 
answered  for  her. 

"  An'  you've  got  'em  all  laid  away,  yellowin'  ?" 

"  I  guess  they  ain't  yellowed  much,"  said  Sarah 
Barnard. 
'  "  I  don't  see  when  you're  ever  goin'  to  use  'em." 

"  Mebbe  there'd  be  chances  enough  to  use  'em  if 
some  folks  was  as  crazy  to  take  up  with  'em  as  some 
other  folks,"  returned  Sarah  Barnard. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean?" 

"  Oh,  nothin'.  If  folks  want  chances  to  make 
pillow-slips  bad  enough  there's  generally  poor  tools 
enough  layin'  'round,  that's  all." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean,  Sarah  Barnard." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  nothin',"  answered  Sarah  Bar 
nard.  She  glanced  at  her  daughter  Charlotte  and 
smiled  slyly,  but  Charlotte  never  returned  the  glance 


268 


and  smile.  She  sewed  steadily.  Rose  colored,  but 
she  said  nothing.  She  looked  very  pretty  and  happy, 
as  she  sat  there,  sewing  knitted  lace  on  her  wedding- 
pillows  ;  and  she  really  was  happy.  Her  passionate 
heart  had  really  satisfied  itself  with  the  boyish  lover 
whom  she  would  have  despised  except  for  lack  of  a 
better.  She  was  and  would  be  happy  enough  ;  it 
was  only  a  question  of  deterioration  of  character, 
and  the  nobility  of  applying  to  the  need  of  love  the 
rules  of  ordinary  hunger  and  thirst,  and  eating  con 
tentedly  the  crust  when  one  could  not  get  the  pie,  of 
drinking  the  water  when  one  could  not  get  the  wine. 
Contentment  may  be  sometimes  a  degradation  ;  but 
she  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life, 
although  she  had  a  little  sense  of  humiliation  when 
she  reflected  that  Tommy  Ray,  younger  than  herself, 
tending  store  under  her  brother,  was  not  exactly  a 
brilliant  match  for  her,  and  that  everybody  in  the 
village  would  think  so.  So  she  colored  angrily 
when  her  aunf  Sarah  spoke  as  she  did,  although  she 
said  nothing.  But  her  mother,  although  she  had 
rebelled  in  private  bitterly  against  her  daughter's 
choice,  was  ready  enough  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for 
her  in  public. 

"  Well,"  said  Hannah  Berry,  "  two  old  maids  in 
the  family  is  about  enough,  accordin'  to  my  way  of 
thinkin'." 

"  It's  better  to  be  an  old  maid  than  to  marry 
somebody  you  don't  want,  jest  for  the  sake  of  bein' 
married,"  retorted  Sarah  Barnard,  fiercely. 


269 


The  two  sisters  clashed  like  two  thorny  bushes  of 
one  family  in  a  gale  the  whole  afternoon.  The  two 
daughters  sewed  silently,  and  Sylvia  knitted  a  stock 
ing  with  scarcely  a  word  until  she  arose  to  get  tea. 

Cephas  and  Silas  both  came  to  tea,  which  was 
served  in  state,  with  a  fine  linen  table-cloth,  and 
Sylvia's  mother's  green  and  white  sprigged  china. 
Nobody  suspected,  as  they  tasted  the  damson  sauce 
with  the  thin  silver  spoons,  as  they  tilted  the  green 
and  white  teacups  to  their  lips,  and  ate  the  rich 
pound-cake  and  pie,  what  a  very  feast  of  renuncia 
tion  and  tragedy  this  was  to  poor  Sylvia  Crane. 
Cephas  and  Silas,  indeed,  knew  that  money  had  been 
advanced  her  by  the  town  upon  her  estate,  but  they 
were  far  from  suspecting,  and,  indeed,  were  unwill 
ing  to  suspect,  how  nearly  it  was  exhausted  and  the 
property  lived  out.  It  was  only  a  meagre  estimate 
that  the  town  of  Pembroke  had  made  of  the  Crane 
ancestral  acres.  If  Silas  and  Cephas  had  ever  known 
what  it  was,  they  had  dismissed  it  from  their  minds, 
they  were  interested  in  not  knowing.  Suppose  their 
wives  should  want  to  give  her  a  home  and  support. 

The  women  knew  nothing  whatever. 

When  they  went  home,  an  hour  after  tea,  Hannah 
Berry  turned  to  Sylvia  in  the  doorway.  "  I  suppose 
you  know  the  weddin'  is  comin'  off  pretty  soon  now," 
said  she. 

"  Yes,  I  s'posed  'twas,"  answered  Sylvia,  trying  to 
smile. 
•*•"  Well,  I  thought  I'd  jest  mention  it,  so  you  could 


270 


get  your  present  ready,"  said  Hannah.  She  nudged 
Rose  violently  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  don't  care ;  I  meant  to  give  her  a  hint,"  she 
said,  chuckling,  when  they  were  outside.  "  She  can 
give  you  something  jest  as  well  as  not ;  she  might 
give  you  some  silver  teaspoons,  or  a  table,  or  sofa. 
There  !  she  bought  that  handsome  sofa  for  herself  a 
few  years  ago,  an'  she  didn't  need  it  morc'n  nothin' 
at  all.  I  suppose  she  thought  Richard  Alger  wyas 
comin'  steady,  but  now  he's  stopped." 

Rose  was  married  in  a  few  weeks.  The  morning 
of  the  wedding-day  Sylvia  went  into  Berry's  store 
and  called  William  aside. 

"  If  you  can,  I  wish  you'd  come  'round  by-an'-by 
with  your  horse  an'  your  wood-sled,"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  guess  I  can  ;  what  is  it  you  want  ?"  asked 
William,  eying  her  curiously.  She  was  very  pale ; 
there  were  red  circles  around  her  eyes,  and  her 
mouth  trembled. 

"  Oh,  it  ain't  anything,  only  a  little  present  I 
wanted  to  send  to  Rose,"  replied  Sylvia. 

"Well,"  said  William,  "I'll  be  along  by-an'-by." 
He  looked  after  her  in  a  perplexed  way  as  she  went 
out. 

Silas  was  in  the  back  of  the  store,  and  presently 
he  came  forward.  "  What  she  want  you  to  do?"  he 
inquired  of  his  son. 

William  told  him.  The  old  man  chuckled. 
"Hannah  give  her  a  hint  'tother  day,  an'  I  guess 
she  took  it,"  he  said. 


271 


"  I  thought  she  looked  pretty  poorly,"  said  Will 
iam — "  looked  as  if  she'd  been  crying  or  something. 
How  do  you  suppose  that  property  holds  out,  father? 
I  heard  the  town  was  allowing  her  on  it." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it  '11  last  her  as  long  as  she  lives," 
replied  Silas,  gruffly.  "Your  mother  had  ought  to 
had  her  thirds  in  it." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  William.  "Aunt 
Sylvy  had  a  hard  time  takin'  care  of  grandmother." 

"  She  was  paid  for  't,"  returned  Silas. 

"  Richard  Alger  treated  her  mean." 

"  Guess  he  sat  out  considerable  firewood  an'  candle- 
grease,"  assented  the  old  man. 

A  customer  came  in  then,  and  Ezra  Ray  sprang 
forward.  He  was  all  excited  over  his  brother's  wed 
ding,  and  was  tending  store  in  his  place  that  day. 
His  mother  was  making  him  a  new  suit  to  wear  to 
the  wedding,  and  he  felt  as  if  the  whole  affair  huno1, 
as  it  were,  upon  the  buttons  of  his  new  jacket  and 
the  straps  of  his  new  trousers. 

"Guess  I  might  as  well  go  over  to  Aunt  Sylvy's 
now  as  any  time,"  said  William. 

"  Don't  see  what  she  wanted  you  to  fetch  the  horse 
an'  sled  for,"  ruminated  Silas.  "  Mother  thought 
most  likely  she'd  give  some  silver  teaspoons  if  she 
give  anything." 

William  went  out  to  the  barn,  put  the  horse  in  the 
sled,  and  drove  down  the  hill  towards  Sylvia's. 
AVhen  he  returned  the  old  thin  silver  teaspoons  of 
the  Crane  family  were  in  his  coat-pocket,  and  Sylvia's 


272 


dearly  beloved  and  fondly  cherished  hair-cloth  sofa 
was  on  the  sled  behind  him. 

"  What  in  creation  did  she  send  them  old  tea 
spoons  and  that  old  sofa  for?"  his  mother  asked, 
disgustedly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  William,  soberly  ;  "  but  I 
do  know  one  thing:  I  hated  to  take  them  bad  enough. 
She  acted  all  upset  over  it.  I  think  she'd  better  have 
kept  her  sofa  and  teaspoons  as  long  as  she  lived." 

"Course  she  was  upset  givin'  away  anything," 
scolded  his  mother.  "  It  was  jest  like  her,  givin' 
away  a  passel  of  old  truck  ruther  than  spend  any 
money.  Well,  I  s'pose  you  may  as  well  set  that  sofa 
in  the  parlor.  It  ain't  hurt  much,  anyway." 

Rose  and  her  husband  were  to  live  with  her  par 
ents  for  the  present.  She  was  married  that  evening. 
She  wore  a  blue  silk  dress,  and  some  rose-geranium 
blossoms  and  leaves  in  her  hair.  Tommy  Ray  sat  by 
her  side  on  Sylvia's  sofa  until  the  company  and  the 
minister  were  all  there.  Then  they  stood  up  and 
were  married. 

Sylvia  came  to  the  wedding  in  her  best  silk  gown; 
she  had  trembled  lest  Richard  Alger  should  be  there, 
but  he  had  not  been  invited.  Hannah  Berry  cherished 
a  deep  resentment  against  him. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  any  man  that's  treated  one 
of  my  folks  as  mean  as  he  has  set  foot  in  my  house 
to  a  weddin',  not  if  I  know  it,"  she  told  Rose. 

After  the  marriage  -  cake  and  cider  were  passed 
around,  the  old  people  sat  solemnly  around  the  borders 


273 


of  the  rooms,  and  the  young  people  played  games. 
William  and  his  wife  were  not  there.  Hannah  had 
not  dared  to  slight  them,  but  William  could  not  pre 
vail  upon  Rebecca  to  go. 

Barney,  also,  had  not  been  invited  to  the  wedding. 
Mrs.  Berry  had  an  open  grudge  against  him  on  her 
niece's  account,  and  a  covert  one  on  her  daughter's. 
Hannah  Berry  had  a  species  of  loyalty  in  her  nature, 
inasmuch  as  she  would  tolerate  ill-treatment  of  her 
kin  from  nobody  but  her  own  self. 

Charlotte  Barnard  camo  with  her  father  and  mother, 
and  sat  quietly  with  them  all  the  evening.  She  was 
beginning  insensibly  to  rather  hold  herself  aloof 
from  the  young  people,  and  avoid  joining  in  their 
games.  She  felt  older.  People  had  wondered  if  she 
would  not  wear  the  dress  she  had  had  made  for  her 
own  wedding,  but  she  did  not.  She  wore  her  old 
purple  silk,  which  had  been  made  over  from  one  of 
her  mother's,  and  a  freshly-starched  muslin  collar. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  rich  sweetness  of  cake ;  there 
was  a  loud  discord  of  laughter  and  high  shrill  voices, 
through  which  yet  ran  a  subtle  harmony  of  mirth. 
Laughing  faces  nodded  and  uplifted  like  flowers  in 
the  merry  romping  throngs  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  while  the  sober  ones  against  the  walls  watched 
with  grave,  elderly,  retrospective  eyes. 

As  soon  as  she  could^  Sylvia  Crane  stole  into  her 
sister's  bedroom,  where  the  women's  outside  gar 
ments  were  heaped  high  on  the  bed,  got  her  own, 
opened  the  side  door  softly,  and  went  home.  The 

18 


274 


next  day  she  was  going  to  the  poor-house,  and  no 
body  but  the  three  selectmen  of  Pembroke  knew  it. 
She  had  begged  them,  almost  on  her  knees,  to  tell 
nobody  until  she  was  there. 

That  night  she  rolled  away  the  guardian  stone 
from  before  the  door  with  the  feeling  that  it  was 
for  the  last  time.  All  that  night  she  worked.  She 
could  not  go  to  bed,  she  could  not  sleep,  and  she  had 
gone  beyond  any  frenzy  of  sorrow  and  tears.  All 
her  blind  and  helpless  rage  against  life  and  the  ob 
durately  beneficent  force,  which  had  been  her  con 
ception  of  Providence,  was  gone.  When  the  battle 
is  over  there  is  no  more  need  for  the  fury  of  combat. 
Sylvia  felt  her  battle  was  over,  and  she  felt  the  peace 
of  defeat. 

She  was  to  take  a  few  necessaries  to  the  poor-house 
with  her;  she  had  them  to  pack,  and  she  also  had 
some  cleaning  to  do. 

She  had  a  vague  idea  that  the  town,  which  seemed 
to  loom  over  her  like  some  dreadful  shadowy  giant  of 
a  child's  story,  would  sell  the  house,  and  it  must  be 
left  in  neat  order  for  the  inspection  of  seller  and 
buyer.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  the  town  lookin'  over 
the  house  an'  sayin'  it  ain't  kept  decent,"  she  said. 
So  she  worked  hard  all  night,  and  her  candle  lit  up 
first  one  window,  then  another,  moving  all  over  the 
house  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 

The  man  who  had  charge  of  the  poor-house  came 
for  her  the  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock.  Sylvia  was 
all  ready.  At  quarter  past  ten  he  drove  out  of  the 


275 


old  road  where  the  Crane  house  stood  and  down  the 
village  street.  The  man's  name  was  Jonathan  Leav- 
itt.  He  was  quite  old  but  hearty,  with  a  stubbly 
fringe  of  white  beard  around  a  ruddy  face.  He  had 
come  on  a  wood-sled  for  the  greater  convenience  of 
bringing  Sylvia's  goods.  There  were  a  feather-bed, 
bolster,  and  pillows,  tied  up  in  an  old  homespun 
blanket,  on  the  rear  of  the  sled  ;  there  was  also  a 
red  chest,  and  a  great  bundle  of  bedclothing.  Syl 
via  sat  in  her  best  rocking-chair  just  behind  Jona 
than  Leavitt,  who  drove  standing. 

"  It's  a  pleasant  day  for  this  time  of  year,"  he  ob 
served  to  Sylvia  when  they  started.  Sylvia  nodded 
assent. 

Jonathan  Leavitt  had  had  a  fear  lest  Sylvia  might 
make  a  disturbance  about  going.  Many  a  time  had 
it  taken  hours  for  him  to  induce  a  poor  woman  to 
leave  her  own  door-stone ;  and  when  at  length  they 
had  set  forth,  it  was  to  an  accompaniment  of  shrill, 
piteous  lamentations,  so  strained  and  persistent  that 
they  seemed  scarcely  human,  and  more  like  the  cries 
of  a  scared  cat  being  hauled  away  from  her  home. 
Everybody  on  the  road  had  turned  to  look  after  the 
sled,  and  Jonathan  Leavitt  had  driven  on,  looking 
straight  ahead,  his  face  screwed  hard,  lashing  now 
and  then  his  old  horse,  with  a  gruff  shout.  Now  he 
felt  relieved  and  grateful  to  Sylvia  for  going  so  quiet 
ly.  He  was  disposed  to  be  very  friendly  to  her. 

"  You'd  better  keep  your  rockin'-chair  kind  of 
stiddy,"  he  said,  when  they  turned  the  corner  into 


276 


the  new  road,  and  the  chair  oscillated  like  an  uneasy 
berth  at  sea. 

Sylvia  sat  up  straight  in  the  chair.  She  had  on 
her  best  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  her  .worked  lace  veil 
over  her  face.  Her  poor  blue  eyes  stared  out  be 
tween  the  black  silk  leaves  and  roses.  If  she  had 
been  a  dead  woman  and  riding  to  her  grave,  and  it 
had  been  possible  for  her  to  see  as  she  was  borne 
along  the  familiar  road,  she  would  have  regarded 
everything  in  much  the  same  fashion  that  she  did 
now.  She  looked  at  everything — every  tree,  every 
house  and  wall — with  a  pang  of  parting  forever.  She 
felt  as  if  she  should  never  see  them  again  in  their 
old  light. 

The  poor-house  was  three  miles  out  of  the  village ; 
the  road  lay  past  Richard  Alger's  house.  When 
they  drew  near  it  Sylvia  bent  her  head  low  and 
averted  her  face  ;  she  shut  her  eyes  behind  the 
black  roses.  She  did  not  want  to  know  when  she 
passed  the  house.  An  awful  shame  that  Richard 
should  see  her  riding  past  to  the  poor-house  seized 
upon  her. 

The  wood-sled  went  grating  on,  a  chain  rattled; 
she  calculated  that  they  were  nearly  past  when  there 
was  a  jerk,  and  Jonathan  Leavitt  cried  "  Hullo  !" 

"  Where  you  going  ?"  shouted  another  voice. 
Sylvia  knew  it.  Her  heart  pounded.  She  turned 
her  face  farther  to  one  side,  and  did  not  open  her 
eyes. 

Richard  Alger  came  plunging  down  out  of  his 


yard.  His  handsome  face  was  quite  pale  under  a 
slight  grizzle  of  beard,  he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
he  had  on  no  dicky  or  stock,  and  his  sinewy  throat 
showed. 

"  Where  you  goin'  ?"  he  gasped  out  again,  as  he 
came  up  to  the  sled. 

"  I'm  a  takin'  Sylvy  home.  Why  ?"  inquired  Jona 
than  Leavitt,  with  a  dazed  look. 

"  Home  ?  What  are  you  headed  this  way  for  ? 
What  are  all  those  things  on  the  sled  ?" 

"  She's  lived  out  her  place,  an'  the  town's  jest  took 
it ;  guess  you  didn't  know,  Richard,"  said  Jonathan 
Leavitt.  His  eyes  upon  the  other  man  were  half 
shrewdly  inquiring,  half  bewildered. 

Sylvia  never  turned  her  head.  She  sat  with  her 
eyes  closed  behind  her  veil. 

"  Just  turn  that  sled  'round,"  said  Richard  Alger. 

"  Turn  the  sled  'round  ?" 

"  Yes,  turn  it  'round  !"  Richard  himself  grasped 
the  bay  horse  by  the  bit  as  he  spoke.  "Back, 
back !"  he  shouted. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  on,  Richard  ?"  cried  the  old 
man  ;  but  he  pulled  his  right  rein  mechanically,  and 
the  sled  slewed  slowly  and  safely  around. 

Richard  jumped  on  and  stood  just  beside  Sylvia, 
holding  to  a  stake.  "  W^here  d'ye  want  to  go  ?" 
asked  the  old  man. 

"  Back." 

"  But  the  town — " 

"  I'll  take  care  of  the  town." 


278 


Jonathan  Leavitt  drove  back.  Sylvia  opened  her 
eyes  a  little  way,  and  saw  Richard's  back.  "  You'll 
catch  cold  without  your  coat,"  she  half  gasped. 

"  No,  I  sha'n't,"  returned  Richard,  but  he  did  not 
turn  his  head. 

Sylvia  did  not  say  any  more.  She  was  trembling 
so  that  her  very  thoughts  seemed  to  waver.  They 
turned  the  corner  of  the  old  road,  and  drove  up  to 
her  old  house.  Richard  stepped  off  the  sled,  and 
held  out  his  hands  to  Sylvia.  "  Come,  get  off,"  said 
he. 

"  I  dunno  about  this,"  said  Jonathan  Leavitt.  "  I'm 
willin'  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  Richard,  but  I've  had 
my  instructions." 

"I  tell  you  I'll  take  care  of  it,"  said  Richard  Al- 
ger.  "I'll  settle  all  the  damages  with  the  town. 
Come,  Sylvia,  get  off." 

And  Sylvia  Crane  stepped  weakly  off  the  wood- 
sled,  and  Richard  Alger  helped  her  into  the  house. 
"  Why,  you  can't  hardly  walk,"  said  he,  and  Sylvia 
had  never  heard  anything  like  the  tenderness  in  his 
tone.  He  bent  down  and  rolled  away  the  stone. 
Sylvia  had  rolled  it  in  front  of  the  door  herself, 
when  she  went  out,  as  she  supposed,  for  the  last 
time.  Then  he  opened  the  door,  and  took  hold  of 
her  slender  shawled  arm,  and  half  lifted  her  in. 

"  Go  in  an'  sit  down,"  said  he,  "  while  we  get  the 
things  in." 

Sylvia  went  mechanically  into  her  clean,  fireless 
parlor ;  it  was  the  room  where  she  had  always  re- 


279 


ceived  Richard.  She  sat  down  in  a  flag -bottomed 
chair  and  waited. 

Richard  and  Jonathan  Leavitt  came  into  the  house 
tugging  the  feather-bed  between  them.  "  We'll  put 
it  in  the  kitchen,"  she  heard  Richard  say.  They 
brought  in  the  chest  and  the  bundle  of  bedding. 
Then  Richard  came  into  the  parlor  carrying  the 
rocking-chair  before  him.  "  You  want  this  in  here, 
don't  you  ?"  he  said. 

"  It  belongs  here,"  said  Sylvia,  faintly.  Jonathan 
Leavitt  gathered  up  his  reins  and  drove  out  of  the 
yard. 

Richard  set  down  the  chair ;  then  he  went  and 
stood  before  Sylvia. 

"  Look  here,  Sylvia,"  said  he.  Then  he  stopped 
and  put  his  hands  over  his  face.  His  whole  frame 
shook.  Sylvia  stood  up.  "  Don't,  Richard,"  she  said. 

"I  never  had  any  idea  of  this,"  said  Richard  Al- 
ger,  with  a  great  groaning  sob. 

"  Don't  you  feel  so  bad,  Richard,"  said  Sylvia. 

Suddenly  Richard  put  his  arm  around  Sylvia,  and 
pulled  her  close  to  him.  "  I'll  look  out  and  do  bet 
ter  by  you  the  rest  of  your  life,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
He  took  hold  of  Sylvia's  veil  and  pulled  it  back. 
Her  pale  face  drooped  before  him. 

"  You  look — half — starved,"  he  groaned.  Sylvia 
looked  up  and  saw  tears  on  his  rough  cheeks. 

"  Don't  you  feel  bad,  Richard,"  she  said  again. 

"  I'd  ought  to  feel  bad,"  said  Richard,  fiercely. 

"  I   couldn't   help    it,   that   night   you    come    an' 


280 


found  me  gone.  It  was  that  night  Charlotte  had 
the  trouble  with  Barney.  Sarah,  she  wouldn't  let 
me  come  home  any  sooner.  I  was  dreadful  upset 
about  it." 

"I've  been  meaner  than  sin,  an'  I  don't  know  as 
it  makes  it  any  better,  because  I  couldn't  seem  to 
help  it,"  said  Richard  Alger.  "  I  didn't  forget  you 
a  single  minute,  Sylvia,  an'  I  was  awful  sorry  for 
you,  an'  there  wasn't  a  Sabbath  night  that  I  didn't 
want  to  come  more  than  I  wanted  to  go  to  Heaven ! 
But  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't  nohow.  I've  always  had 
to  travel  in  tracks,  an'  no  man  livin'  knows  how  deep 
a  track  he's  in  till  he  gets  jolted  out  of  it  an'  can't 
get  back.  But  I've  got  into  a  track  now,  an'  I'll  die 
before  I  get  out  of  it.  There  ain't  any  use  in  your 
lookin'  at  me,  Sylvia,  but  if  you  can  make  up  your 
mind  to  have  me,  I'll  try  my  best,  an'  do  all  I  can  to 
make  it  all  up  to  you  in  the  time  that's  left." 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  had  a  dreadful  hard  time,  livin' 
alone  so  long,  an'  tryin'  to  do  for  yourself,"  said  Syl 
via,  pitifully. 

"  I'm  glad  I  have,"  replied  Richard,  grimly. 

He  clasped  Sylvia  closer ;  her  best  bonnet  was  all 
crushed  against  his  breast.  He  looked  around  over 
her  head,  as  if  searching  for  something. 

"  Where's  the  sofa  gone  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  gave  it  to  Rose  for  a  weddin'  present.  I  thought 
I  shouldn't  ever  need  it,"  Sylvia  murmured. 

"  Well,  I've  got  one,  it  ain't  any  matter,"  said 
Richard. 


281 


He  moved  towards  the  rocking-chair,  drawing  Syl 
via  gently  along  with  him. 

"  Sit  down,  Sylvia,"  said  he,  softly. 

"  No,  you  sit  down  in  the  rocking-chair,  Richard," 
said  Sylvia.  She  reached  out  and  pulled  a  flag-bot 
tomed  chair  close  and  sat  down  herself.  Richard  sat 
in  the  rocking-chair. 

Sylvia  untied  her  bonnet,  took  it  off,  and  straight 
ened  it.  Richard  watched  her.  "  I  want  you  to  have 
a  white  bonnet,"  said  he. 

"  I'm  too  old,  Richard,"  Sylvia  replied,  blushing. 

"No,  you  ain't,"  he  said,  defiantly;  "you've  got 
to  have  a  white  bonnet." 

Sylvia  looked  in  his  face — and  indeed  hers  looked 
young  enough  for  a  white  bonnet ;  it  flushed  and  lit 
up,  like  an  old  flower  revived  in  a  new  spring. 

Richard  leaned  over  towards  her,  and  the  two  old 
lovers  kissed  each  other.  Richard  moved  his  chair 
close  to  hers,  and  Sylvia  felt  his  arm  coming  around 
her  waist.  She  sat  still.  "  Put  your  head  down  on 
my  shoulder,"  whispered  Richard. 

And  Sylvia  laid  her  head  on  Richard's  shoulder. 
She  felt  as  if  she  were  dreaming  of  a  dream. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Richard  Alger  went  home  he  wore  an  old 
brown  shawl  of  Sylvia's  over  his  shoulders.  He  had 
demurred  a  little.  "I  can't  go  down  the  street  with 
your  shawl  on,  Sylvia,"  he  had  pleaded,  but  Sylvia 
insisted. 

"  You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold,  goin'  home  in 
your  shirt-sleeves,"  she  said.  "  They  won't  know 
it's  my  shawl.  Men  wear  shawls." 

"  You've  worn  this  ever  since  I've  known  you, 
Sylvia,  an'  I  ain't  given  to  catchin'  cold  easy,"  said 
Richard  almost  pitifully.  But  he  stood  still  and  let 
Sylvia  pin  the  shawl  around  his  neck.  Sylvia  seemed 
to  have  suddenly  acquired  a  curious  maternal  author 
ity  over  him,  and  he  submitted  to  it  as  if  it  were 
merely  natural  that  he  should. 

Richard  Alger  went  meekly  down  the  road,  wear 
ing  the  old  brown  shawl  that  had  often  draped  Sylvia 
Crane's  slender  feminine  shoulders  when  she  walked 
abroad,  since  she  was  a  young  girl.  Sylvia  had  al 
ways  worn  it  corner-wise,  but  she  had  folded  it  square 
for  him  as  making  it  more  of  a  masculine  garment. 
Two  corners  waved  out  stiffly  from  his  square  shoul 
ders.  He  tried  to  swing  his  arms  unconcernedly  un 
der  it;  once  the  fringe  hit  his  hand  and  he  jumped. 


283 


He  was  shame-faced  when  he  struck  out  into  the 
main  road,  but  he  did  not  dream  of  taking  off  the 
shawl.  A  very  passion  of  obedience  and  loyalty  to 
Sylvia  had  taken  possession  of  him.  "With  every 
submission  after  long  persistency,  there  is  a  strong 
reverse  action,  as  from  the  sudden  cessation  of  any 
motion.  Richard  now  yielded  in  more  marked  meas 
ure  than  he  had  opposed.  He  had  borne  with  his 
whimsical  will  against  all  his  sweetheart's  dearest 
wishes  during  the  better  part  of  her  life ;  now  he 
would  wear  any  insignia  of  bondage  if  she  bade  him. 

He  had  gone  a  short  distance  on  the  main  road 
when  he  met  Hannah  Berry.  She  was  hurrying 
along,  her  face  was  quite  red,  and  he  could  hear  her 
pant  as  she  drew  near.  She  looked  at  him  sharply, 
she  fairly  narrowed  her  eyes  over  the  shawl.  "  Good- 
mornin',''  said  she. 

Richard  said  "  Good-morning,"  gruffly.  The  shawl 
blew  out  against  Hannah's  shoulder  as  she  passed 
him.  She  turned  about  and  stared  after  him,  and  he 
knew  it.  He  went  on  with  dogged  chin  in  the  folds 
of  the  shawl. 

Hannah  Berry  hurried  along  to  Sylvia  Crane's. 
When  she  opened  the  door  Sylvia  was  just  coming 
out  of  the  parlor,  and  the  two  sisters  met  in  the 
entry  with  a  kind  of  shock. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  murmured  Sylvia.  Sylvia  cast 
down  her  eyes  before  her  sister.  She  tried  not  to 
smile.  Her  hair  was  tumbled  and  there  were  red 
spots  on  her  cheeks. 


284 


"Has  lie  been  here  all  this  time?"  demanded 
Hannah. 

"  He's  just  gone." 

"  I  met  him  out  here.  What  in  creation  did  you 
rig  him  up  in  your  old  shawl  for,  Sylvy  Crane  ?" 

"  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  an'  I  wasn't  goin1  to 
have  him  catch  his  death  of  cold,"  replied  Sylvia  with 
dignity. 

"  In  his  shirt-sleeves  !" 

"Yes,  he  run  out  just  as  he  was." 

"  Land  sakes  !"  said  Hannah.  The  two  women 
looked  at  each  other.  Suddenly  Hannah  threw  out 
her  arms  from  under  her  shawl,  and  clasped  Sylvia. 
"  Oh,  Sylvy,"  she  sobbed  out,  "  to  think  you  was 
settin'  out  for  the  poor-house  this  mornin',  an'  we 
havin'  a  weddin'  last  night,  an'  never  knowin'  it ! 
Why  didn't  you  say  anythin'  about  it,  why  didn't 
you,  Sylvy  ?" 

"  I  knew  you  couldn't  do  anything,  Hannah." 

"  Knew  I  couldn't  do  anything  !  Do  you  suppose 
me  or  Sarah  would  have  let  all  the  sister  we've  got 
go  to  the  poor-house  whilst  we  had  a  roof  over  our 
heads  ?  We'd  took  you  right  in,  either  one  of  us." 

"  I  was  afraid  Silas  an'  Cephas  wouldn't  be  willin'." 

"I  guess  they'd  had  to  be  willin'.  I  told  Silas 
just  now  that  if  Richard  Alger  didn't  come  forward 
like  a  man,  you  was  comin'  to  my  house,  an'  have 
the  best  we've  got  as  long  as  you  lived.  Silas,  he 
said  he  thought  you'd  ought  to  earn  your  own  livin', 
an'  I  told  him  there  wa'n't  anv  chance  for  a  woman 


285 


like  you  to  earn  your  livin'  in  Pembroke,  that  you 
could  earn  your  livin'  enough  livin'  at  your  own 
sister's.  Oh,  Sylvy,  I  can't  stand  it,  when  I  think  of 
your  startin'  out  that  way,  an'  never  sayin'  a  word." 
Hannah  sobbed  convulsively  on  her  sister's  shoulder. 
There  were  tears  in  Sylvia's  eyes,  but  her  face  above 
her  sister's  head  was  radiant.  "  Don't,  Hannah,"  she 
said.  "  It's  all  over  now,  you  know." 

"  Is  he — goin'  to  have  you  now — Sylvy  ?" 

"  I  guess  so,  maybe,"  said  Sylvia. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  go  to  his  house,  this  is  so  run 
down." 

"  He's  goin'  to  fix  this  one  up." 

"  You  think  you'd  rather  live  here,  then  ?  Well,  I 
s'pose  I  should.  I  s'pose  he's  goin'  to  buy  it.  The 
town  hadn't  ought  to  ask  much.  Sylvy  Crane,  I 
can't  get  it  through  my  head,  nohow." 

"  What  ?"  said  Sylvia. 

"  How  you  run  out  this  nice  place  so  quick.  I 
thought  an'  Sarah  thought  you'd  got  enough  to  last 
you  jest  as  long  as  you  lived,  an'  have  some  left  to 
leave  then." 

Hannah  stood  back  and  looked  at  her  sister 
sharply. 

"  I've  always  been  as  savin'  as  I  knew  how,"  said 
Sylvia. 

"  Well,  I  dunno  but  you  have.  You  got  that  sofa, 
that  cost  considerable.  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
you'd  got  that,  if  you'd  known  how  things  were, 
Sylvy." 


286 


"  I  kinder  felt  as  if  I  needed  it." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  might  have  got  along  without 
that,  anyhow.  Richard's  got  one,  ain't  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  says  he  has." 

"  I  thought  I  remembered  his  mother's  buy  in'  one 
just  before  his  father  died.  Well,  you'll  have  his 
sofa,  then ;  if  I  remember  right,  it's  a  better  one  than 
yours  that  you  give  Rose.  Now,  Sylvy  Crane,  you 
jest  put  on  your  hood  an'  shawl,  an'  come  home  with 
me,  an'  have  some  dinner.  Have  you  got  anything 
in  the  house  to  eat  ?" 

"  I've  got  a  few  things,"  replied  Sylvia,  evasively. 

"  What  ?" 

"  Some  potatoes  an'  apples." 

"  Potatoes  an'  apples !"  Hannah  began  to  sob 
again.  "  To  think  of  your  comin'  to  this,"  she 
wailed.  "  My  own  sister  not  havin'  anything  in  the 
house  to  eat,  an'  settin'  out  for  the  poor-house,  an' 
everybody  in  town  knowin'  it." 

"  Don't  feel  bad  about  it,  Hannah ;  it's  all  over 
now,"  said  Sylvia. 

"  Don't  feel  bad  about  it !  I  guess  you'd  feel  bad 
about  it  if  you  was  in  my  place,"  returned  Hannah. 
"  I  s'pose  you  think  now  you've  got  Richard  Alger 
that  there's  nothin'  else  makes  any  odds.  I  guess 
I've  got  some  feelin's.  Get  your  hood  and  shawl, 
now  do ;  dinner  was  all  ready  when  I  come  away." 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  not,  Hannah,"  said  Sylvia.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  never  would  want  anything 
to  eat  again.  She  wanted  to  be  alone  in  her  old 


287 


house,  and  hug  her  happiness  to  her  heart,  whose 
starvation  had  caused  her  more  agony  than  any 
other.  Now  that  was  appeased  she  cared  for  noth 
ing  else. 

"  You  come  right  along,"  said  Hannah.  "  I've 
got  a  nice  roast  spare-rib  an'  turnip  an'  squash,  an' 
you're  goin'  to  come  an'  have  some  of  it." 

When  Hannah  and  Sylvia  got  out  on  the  main 
road,  they  heard  Sarah  Barnard's  voice  calling  them. 
She  was  hurrying  down  the  hill.  Cephas  had  just 
come  home  with  the  news.  Jonathan  Leavitt  had 
spread  it  over  the  village  from  the  nucleus  of  the 
store  where  he  had  stopped  on  his  way  home. 

Sarah  Barnard  sat  down  on  the  snowy  stone-wall 
among  the  last  year's  blackberry  vines,  and  cried  as 
if  her  heart  would  break.  Finally  Hannah,  after 
joining  with  her  awhile,  turned  to  and  comforted 
her. 

"  Land  sake,  don't  take  on  so,  Sarah  Barnard !" 
said  she  ;  "  it's  all  over  now.  Sylvy's  goin'  to  mar 
ry  Richard  Alger,  an'  there  ain't  a  man  in  Pembroke 
any  better  off,  unless  it's  Squire  Payne.  She's  goin' 
to  have  him  right  off,  an'  he's  goin'  to  buy  the  house 
an'  fix  it  up,  an'  she's  goin'  to  have  all  his  mother's 
nice  things,  an'  she's  comin'  home  with  me  now,  an' 
have  some  nice  roast  spare -rib  an'  turnip.  There 
ain't  nothin'  to  take  on  about." 

Hannah  fairly  pulled  Sarah  off  the  stone -wall. 
"  Sylvy  an'  me  have  got  to  go,"  said  she.  "  You 
come  down  this  afternoon,  an'  we'll  all  go  over  to 


288 


her  house,  an'  talk  it  over.  I  s'pose  Richard  will 
come  to-night.  I  hope  he'll  shave  first,  an'  put  on 
his  coat.  I  never  see  such  a  lookin'  sight  as  he  was 
when  I  met  him  jest  now." 

"  I  didn't  see  as  he  looked  very  bad,"  said  Sylvia, 
with  dignity. 

"  It  seems  as  if  it  would  kill  me  jest  to  think  of 
it,"  sobbed  Sarah  Barnard,  turning  tremulously  away. 

"  Don't  you  feel  bad  about  it  any  longer,  Sarah," 
Sylvia  said,  half  absently.  Her  hair  blew  out  wild 
ly  from  under  her  hood  over  her  flushed  cheeks;  she 
smiled  as  if  at  something  visible,  past  her  sister,  and 
past  everything  around  her. 

"  I  tell  you  there  ain't  nothin'  to  be  killed  about !" 
Hannah  called  after  Sarah;  she  caught  hold  of  Syl 
via's  arm.  "  Sarah  always  was  kind  of  hystericky," 
said  she.  "  That  spare-rib  will  be  all  dried  up,  an' 
I  wouldn't  give  a  cent  for  it,  if  you  don't  come 
along." 

Richard  Alger  and  Sylvia  Crane  were  married  very 
soon.  There  was  no  wedding,  and  people  were  dis 
appointed  about  that.  Hannah  Berry  tried  to  per 
suade  Sylvia  to  have  one.  "  I'm  willin'  to  make  the 
cake,"  said  she.  "  I've  jest  been  through  one  wed- 
din',  but  I'll  do  it.  If  I'd  been  goin'  with  a  feller 
as  long  as  you  have  with  him,  I  wouldn't  get  cheated 
out  of  a  weddin',  anyhow.  I'd  have  a  weddin'  an' 
I'd  have  cake,  an'  I'd  ask  folks,  especially  after  what's 
happened.  I'd  let  'em  see  I  wa'n't  quite  so  far  gone, 
if  I  had  set  out  for  the  poor-house  once.  I'd  have 


289 


a  weddin'.  Richard's  got  money  enough.  I  had 
real  good-luck  with  Rose's  cake,  an'  I  ain't  afraid 
to  try  yours.  I  guess  I  should  make  it  a  little  mite 
stiffer  than  I  did  hers." 

But  Sylvia  was  obdurate.  She  did  not  say  much, 
but  she  went  her  own  way.  She  had  gained  a  cer 
tain  quiet  decision  and  dignity  which  bewildered 
everybody.  Her  sisters  had  dimly  realized  that 
there  was  something  about  her  out  of  plumb,  as  it 
were.  Her  nature  had  been  warped  to  one  side  by 
one  concentrated  and  unsatisfied  desire.  "  Seems  to 
me,  sometimes,  as  if  Sylvy  was  kind  of  queer,"  Han 
nah  Berry  often  said.  "  I  dunno  but  she's  kinder 
turned  on  Richard  Alger,"  Sarah  would  respond. 
Now  she  seemed  suddenly  to  have  regained  her  equi 
librium,  and  no  longer  slanted  doubtfully  across  her 
sisters'  mental  horizons. 

She  and  Richard  went  to  the  minister's  house  early 
one  Sabbath  morning,  and  were  married.  Then  they 
went  to  meeting,  Sylvia  on  Richard's  arm.  They  sat 
side  by  side  in  the  Alger  pew ;  it  was  on  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  meeting-house  from  Sylvia's  old  pew. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  would  see  her  old  self 
sitting  there  alone,  as  of  old,  if  she  looked  across. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  straight  ahead,  and  never  glanced 
at  Richard  by  her  side.  She  held  her  white-bonneted 
head  up  like  some  gentle  flower  which  had  sprung 
back  to  itself  after  a  hard  wind.  She  had  a  new 
white  bridal  bonnet,  as  Richard  had  wished ;  it  was 
trimmed  with  white  plumes  and  ribbons,  and  she 


290 


wore  a  long  white-worked  veil  over  her  face.  The 
wrought  net-work,  as  delicate  as  frost,  softened  all 
the  hard  lines  and  fixed  tints,  and  gave  to  her  face 
an  illusion  of  girlhood.  She  wore  the  two  curls  over 
her  cheeks.  Richard  had  asked  her  why  she  didn't 
curl  her  hair  as  she  used  to  do. 

All  the  people  saw  Sylvia's  white  bonnet ;  it  seemed 
to  turn  their  eyes  like  a  brilliant  white  spot,  which 
reflected  all  the  light  in  the  meeting-house.  But 
there  were  a  few  women  who  eyed  more  sharply 
Sylvia's  wedding-gown  and  mantilla,  for  she  wore  the 
very  ones  which  poor  Charlotte  Barnard  had  made 
ready  for  her  own  bridal.  Sylvia  was  just  about  her 
niece's  height ;  the  gown  had  needed  a  little  taking 
in  to  fit  her  thinner  form,  and  that  was  all. 

Charlotte's  mother  had  brought  them  over  to  Syl 
via's  one  night,  all  nicely  folded  in  white  linen  towels. 

"  Charlotte  wants  you  to  have  'em ;  she  says  she 
won't  ever  need  'em,  poor  child !"  she  said,  in  re 
sponse  to  Sylvia's  remonstrances.  Mrs.  Barnard's 
eyes  were  red,  as  if  she  had  been  crying.  It  had 
apparently  been  harder  for  her  to  give  up  the  poor 
slighted  wedding  -  clothes  than  for  her  daughter. 
Charlotte  had  not  shed  a  tear  when  she  took  them 
out  of  the  chest  and  shook  off  the  sprigs  of  lavender 
which  she  had  laid  over  them ;  but  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  smell  that  faint  elusive  breath  of  lav 
ender  across  the  meeting-house  when  Sylvia  came  in, 
and  the  rustle  of  her  bridal-gown  was  as  loud  in  her 
ears  as  if  she  herself  wore  it. 


291 


"Somebody  might  just  as  well  have  them,  and 
have  some  good  of  them,"  she  had  told  her  mother, 
and  she  spoke  as  if  they  were  the  garments  of  some 
one  who  was  dead. 

"  Seems  to  me,  as  much  as  they  cost,  you'd  ought 
to  wear  'em  yourself,"  said  her  mother. 

"  I  never  shall,"  Charlotte  said,  firmly  ;  **  and  they 
might  just  as  well  do  somebody  some  good."  Char 
lotte's  New  England  thrift  and  practical  sense  stretched 
her  sentiment  on  the  rack,  and  she  never  made  a 
sound. 

Barney,  watching  out  from  his  window  that  Sun 
day,  caught  a  flash  of  green  and  purple  from  Sylvia's 
silken  skirt  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  old  road 
with  Richard.  "  She's  got  on  Charlotte's  wedding- 
dress.  She's — given  it  to  her,"  he  said,  with  a  gasp. 
He  had  never  forgotten  it  since  the  day  Charlotte  had 
shown  it  to  him.  He  had  pictured  her  in  it,  hun 
dreds  of  times,  to  his  own  delight  and  torment.  He 
had  a  fierce  impulse  to  rush  out  and  strip  his  Char 
lotte's  wedding-clothes  from  this  other  bride's  back. 

"  She's  gone  and  given  it  away,  and  she  hasn't  got 
a  good  silk  dress  herself ;  she's  wearing  her  old  cloak 
to  meeting,"  he  half  sobbed  to  himself.  He  won 
dered  piteously,  thinking  of  his  savings  and  of  his 
property  since  his  father's  death,  if  he  might  not,  at 
least,  buy  Charlotte  a  new  silk  dress  and  a  man 
tilla.  "  I  don't  believe  she'd  be  mad,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
I'm  afraid  her  father  wouldn't  let  her  wear  it." 

The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  it  seemed  as 


292 


if  lie  could  not  bear  it,  unless  he  could  buy  Charlotte 
the  silk  dress.  "  Her  clothes  ain't  as  good  as  mine," 
he  said,  and  he  thought  of  his  best  blue  broadcloth 
suit,  and  his  flowered  vest  and  silk  hat.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  with  all  the  terrible  injury  he  was  doing 
Charlotte,  he  also  injured  her  by  having  better  clothes 
than  she,  and  that  that  was  something  which  might 
be  set  right. 

As  Barney  sat  by  his  window  that  Sunday  after 
noon  he  saw  a  man  coming  down  the  hill.  He 
watched  him  idly,  then  his  heart  leaped  and  he 
leaned  forward.  The  man  advanced  with  a  careless, 
stately  swing,  his  head  was  thrown  back,  his  mul 
berry-colored  coat  had  a  sheen  like  a  leaf  in  the  sun. 
The  man  was  Thomas  Payne.  Barney  turned  white 
as  he  watched  him.  He  had  not  known  he  was  in 
town,  and  his  jealous  heart  at  once  whispered  that 
lie  had  come  to  see  Charlotte.  Thomas  Payne  came 
opposite  the  house,  then  passed  out  of  sight.  Barney 
sat  with  staring  eyes  full  of  miserable  questioning 
upon  the  road.  Had  he  been  to  see  Charlotte  ?  he 
speculated.  He  had  come  from  that  direction ;  but 
Barney  remembered,  with  a  sigh  of  hope,  that  Squire 
Payne  had  a  sister,  an  old  maiden  lady,  who  lived  a 
half-mile  beyond  Charlotte.  Perhaps  Thomas  Payne 
had  been  to  see  his  aunt. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  Barney  was  in  an  agony  of 
doubt  and  unrest  over  the  unsettled  question.  He 
had  been  living  lately  in  a  sort  of  wretched  peace  of 
remorse  and  misery  ;  now  it  was  rudely  shaken.  He 


293 


walked  the  floor;  at  night  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  a  very  torture-chamber  of  his  own 
making,  and  the  tortures  were  worse  than  any  ene 
mies  could  have  devised.  Suppose  Thomas  Payne 
was  sitting  up  with  Charlotte  this  Sunday  night. 
Once  he  thought,  wildly,  of  going  up  the  hill  to  see 
if  there  was  a  light  in  her  parlor,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  the  doubt  was  more  endurable  than  the 
certainty  might  be.  Suppose  Thomas  Payne  was 
sitting  up  with  Charlotte ;  he  called  to  mind  all  her 
sweet  ways.  Suppose  she  was  looking  and  speaking 
to  Thomas  Payne  in  this  way  or  that  way ;  his  im 
agination  threw  out  pictures  before  him  upon  which 
he  could  not  close  his  eyes.  He  saw  Thomas  Payne's 
face  all  glowing  with  triumph,  he  saw  Charlotte's 
with  the  old  look  that  she  had  worn  for  him.  Char 
lotte's  caresses  had  been  few  and  maidenly ;  they  all 
came  into  his  mind  like  stings.  He  knew  just  how 
she  would  put  her  tender  arm  around  this  other 
man's  neck,  how  she  would  lift  grave,  willing  lips  to 
his.  He  wished  that  they  had  never  been  for  him, 
for  all  they  seemed  worth  to  him  now  was  this  bit 
ter  knowledge.  His  fancy  led  him  on  and  on  to 
his  own  torment.  There  was  a  bridal  mist  around 
Charlotte.  He  followed  the  old  courses  of  his  own 
dreams,  after  his  memories  were  passed,  and  they 
caused  him  worse  agony. 

The  next  morning  Barney  went  to  the  store.  It  was 
absolutely  necessary  for  him  to  go,  but  he  shunned 
everybody.  He  had  a  horrible  fear  lest  somebody 


294 


should  say,  "  Hallo,  Barney,  know  Thomas  Payne's 
goin'  to  marry  your  old  girl?"  He  had  planned 
the  very  words,  and  the  leer  of  sly  exultation  that 
would  accompany  it. 

But  he  made  his  purchase  and  went  out,  and  no 
body  spoke  to  him.  He  had  not  seen  Thomas  Payne 
in  the  back  part  of  the  store  behind  the  stove. 
Presently  Thomas  got  up  and  lounged  leisurely  out 
through  the  store,  exchanging  a  word  with  one  and 
another  on  his  way.  When  he  got  out  Barney  was 
going  down  the  road  quite  a  way  ahead  of  him. 
Thomas  Payne  kept  on  in  his  tracks.  There  was 
another  man  coming  towards  him,  and  presently  he 
stood  aside  to  let  him  pass.  "Good -day,  Royal," 
said  Thomas  Payne. 

"  Good-day,  Thomas,"  returned  the  other.  "  When 
d'ye  get  home  ?" 

"Day  before  yesterday.  How  are  you  this  win 
ter,  Royal  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  pretty  fair  to  middlinY'  The  man's 
face,  sunken  in  his  feeble  chest  far  below  the  level  of 
Thomas's  eyes,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sort  of  whim 
sical  patience.  His  back  was  bent  like  a  bow  ;  he  had 
had  curvature  of  the  spine  for  years,  from  a  fall  when 
a  young  man. 

"  Glad  to  hear  that,"  returned  Thomas.  The  man 
passed  him,  walking  as  if  he  were  vainly  trying  to 
straighten  himself  at  every  step.  He  held  his  knees 
stiff  and  threw  his  elbows  back,  but  his  back  still 
curved  pitifully,  although  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  half 


295 


cheating  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  was  walking 
as  straight  as  other  men. 

Thomas  walked  on  rapidly,  lessening  the  distance 
between  himself  and  Barney.  As  he  went  on  he  be 
gan  to  have  a  curious  fancy,  which  he  could  hardly 
persuade  himself  was  a  fancy.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Barney  Thayer  was  walking  like  the  man  whom  he 
had  just  met,  that  his  back  had  that  same  terrible 
curve. 

Thomas  Payne  stared  in  strange  bewilderment  at 
Barney's  back.  "  It  can't  be  that  he  has  spine  dis 
ease,  that  he  has  got  hurt  in  any  way,"'  he  thought  to 
himself.  The  purpose  with  which  he  had  started  out 
rather  paled  in  his  mind.  He  walked  more  rapidly. 
It  certainly  seemed  to  him  that  Barney's  back  was 
bent.  He  got  within  hailing  distance  and  called  out. 

"  Hallo  !"  cried  Thomas  Payne. 

Barney  turned  around,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he 
turned  with  the  feeble,  crooked  motion  of  the  other 
man.  He  saw  Thomas  Payne,  and  his  face  was 
ghastly  white,  but  he  stood  still  and  waited. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  Thomas  said,  gruffly,  as  he  came 
up. 

"How  are  you,  Thomas?"  returned  Barney.  He 
looked  at  Thomas  with  a  dogged  expectancy.  He 
thought  he  was  going  to  tell  him  that  he  was  to 
marry  Charlotte. 

But  Thomas  was  surveying  him  still  in  that  strange 
bewilderment.  "  Look  here,  Barney,"  said  he,  blunt 
ly,  "  have  you  been  sick  ?  I  haven't  heard  of  it." 


296 


"  No,  I  haven't,"  replied  Barney,  \vonderingly. 

Thomas's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  back.  "  I  didn't 
know  but  you  had  got  hurt  or  something,"  said  he. 

Barney  shook  his  head.  Thomas  thought  to  him 
self  that  his  back  was  certainly  curved.  "  I  guess 
I'll  walk  along  with  you  a  little  way,"  said  he  ;  "  I've 
got  something  I  wanted  to  say.  For  God's  sake, 
Barney,  you  are  sick  !" 

"  No,  I  ain't  sick." 

"  You  are  white  as  death'." 

•"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  Barney 
half  gasped.  He  turned  and  walked  on,  and  his  back 
still  bent  like  a  bow  to  Thomas  Payne's  eyes. 

Thomas  went  on  silently  until  they  had  passed  a 
house  just  beyond.  Then  he  stopped  again.  "  Look 
here,  Barney,"  said  he. 

"Well,"  said  Barney.  He  stopped,  but  he  did  not 
turn  or  face  Thomas.  He  only  presented  to  him  that 
curved,  or  semblance  of  a  curved,  back. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Charlotte  Barnard," 
said  Thomas  Payne,  abruptly.  Barney  waited  with 
out  a  word. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  think  it's  none  of  my  business, 
and  in  one  way  it  isn't,"  said  Thomas,  "  but  I  am  go 
ing  to  say  it  for  her  sake ;  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to.  It  seems  to  me  it's  time,  if  anybody  cares  any 
thing  about  her.  What  are  you  treating  Charlotte 
Barnard  so  for,  Barnabas  Thayer?  It's  time  you 
gave  an  account  to  somebody,  and  you  can  give  it  to 


297 


Barney  did  not  answer. 

"  Speak,  you  miserable  coward  !"  shouted  Thomas 
Payne,  with  a  sudden  threatening  motion  of  his  right 
arm. 

Then  Barney  turned,  and  Thomas  started  back 
at  the  sight  of  his  face.  "  I  can't  help  it,"  he 
said. 

"  Can't  help  it,  you — " 

"  I  can't,  before  God,  Thomas." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

Barney  raised  his  right  hand  and  pointed  past 
Thomas.  "  You — met — Royal  Ben  net  just — now," 
he  gasped,  hoarsely. 

Thomas  nodded. 

«  You— saw— his—back  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  something  like  that  ails  me.  I — can't  help 
it—before  God." 

"You  don't  mean — "  Thomas  said,  and  stopped, 
looking  at  Barney's  back. 

"  I  mean  that's  why  I  can't — help  it." 

"  Have  you  hurt  your  back  ?"  Thomas  asked,  in  a 
subdued  tone. 

"  I've  hurt  my  soul,"  said  Barney.  "  It  happened 
that  Sunday  night  years  ago.  I — can't  get  over  it. 
I  am  bent  like  his  back." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  better  get  over  it,  then,  if 
that's  all,"  Thomas  Payne  said,  roughly. 

"  I — can't,  any  more  than  he  can." 

"  Do  you  mean  your  back's  hurt  ?     For  God's  sake 


298 


talk  sense,  Barney !"  Thomas  cried  out,  in  bewilder 
ment. 

"  It's  more  than  my  back ;  it's  me." 

Thomas  stared  at  Barney ;  a  horror  as  of  something 
uncanny  and  abnormal  stole  over  him.  AVas  the 
man's  back  curved,  or  had  be  by  some  subtle  vision 
a  perception  of  some  terrible  spiritual  deformity,  only 
symbolized  by  a  curved  spine  ?  In  a  minute  he  gave 
an  impatient  stamp,  and  tried  to  shake  himself  free 
from  the  vague  pity  and  horror  which  the  other  had 
aroused. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  ruining  the  life  of 
the  best  woman  that  ever  lived  ?"  he  demanded, 
fiercely. 

Barney  looked  at  him,  and  suddenly  there  was  a 
flash  as  of  something  noble  in  his  face. 

"  Look  here,  Thomas,"  he  said,  brokenly,  in  hoarse 
gasps.  ''  Last  night  I — went  mad,  almost,  because 
— I  thought — maybe  you'd  been  to  see — her.  I — 
saw  you  coming  down  the  hill.  I  thought — I'd  die 
thinking  of — you — with  her.  I  can't  tell  you — what 
I've  been  through,  what  I've  suffered,  and — what  I 
suffer  right  along.  I  know  I  ain't  to  be  pitied.  I 
know — there  ain't  any  pity — anywhere  for  anything 
— like  this.  I  don't  pity — myself.  But  it's  awful. 
If  you  could  get  a  sight  of  it,  you'd  know." 

Again  to  Thomas  Payne,  looking  at  the  other,  it 
was  as  if  he  saw  a  pale  agonized  face  staring  up  at 
him  from  the  midst  of  a  curved  mass  of  deformity. 
He  shuddered. 


299 


"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  Barney  Thay- 
er,"  he  said,  looking  away. 

"  There's  one  thing — I  want  to  say,"  Barney  went 
on.  "  I  think  there's  enough  of  a  man  left  in  me — 
I — think  I've  got  strength  enough  to  say  it.  She — 
ought  to  be  happy.  I  don't  want  her — wasting  her 
whole  life — God  knows — I  don't — no  matter  what  it 
does — to  me.  I  —  wish —  See  here,  Thomas.  I 
know  you  —  like  her.  Maybe  she'll — turn  to  you. 
It  seems  as  if  she  must.  I  hope  you  will  —  oh,  for 
God's  sake,  be — good  to  her,  Thomas !" 

Thomas  Payne's  face  was  as  white  as  Barney's. 
He  turned  to  go.  "  There's  no  use  talking  this  way. 
You  know  Charlotte  Barnard  as  well  as  I  do,"  he 
said.  "  You  know  she's  one  of  the  women  that  never 
love  any  man  but  one.  I  don't  want  another  man's 
wife,  if  she'd  have  me."  Suddenly  he  faced  Barney 
again.  "  For  God's  sake,  Barney,"  he  cried  out,  "  be 
a  man  and  go  back  to  her,  and  marry  her !" 

Barney  shook  his  head ;  with  a  kind  of  a  sob  he 
turned  around  and  went  his  way  without  another 
word.  Thomas  Payne  said  no  more  ;  he  stared  after 
Barney's  retreating  figure,  and  again  the  look  of 
bewilderment  and  horror  was  in  his  face. 

That  afternoon  he  asked  his  father,  with  a  casual 
air,  if  he  had  heard  anything  about  Barney  Thayer 
getting  his  back  injured  in  any  way. 

"Why,  no,  I  can't  say  as  1  have,"  returned  the 
squire. 

"  I  saw  him  this  morning,  and  I  thought  his  back 


300 


looked  as  if  it  was  growing  like  Royal  Bennet's.  I 
dare  say  I  imagined  it,"  said  Thomas.  Then  he  went 
out  of  the  room  whistling. 

But,  during  his  few  weeks'  stay  in  Pembroke,  he 
put  the  same  question  to  one  and  another,  with 
varying  results.  Some  said  at  once,  with  a  sudden 
look  of  vague  horror,  that  it  was  so.  That  Barney 
Thayer  was  indeed  growing  deformed  ;  that  they  had 
noticed  it.  Others  scouted  the  idea.  "  Saw  him 
this  morning,  and  he's  as  straight  as  he  ever  was," 
they  said. 

Whether  Barney  Thayer's  back  was,  indeed,  bowed 
into  that  terrible  spinal  curve  or  not,  Thomas  Payne 
could  not  tell  by  any  agreement  of  witnesses.  If 
some,  gifted  with  acute  spiritual  insight,  really  per 
ceived  that  dreadful  warping  of  a  diseased  will,  and 
clothed  it  with  a  material  image  for  their  own  gross 
er  senses ;  or  if  Barney,  through  dwelling  upon  his 
own  real  but  hidden  infirmity,  had  actually  come 
unconsciously  to  give  it  a  physical  expression,  and 
walked  at  times  through  the  village  with  his  back 
bent  like  his  spirit,  although  not  diseased,  Thomas 
Payne  could  only  speculate.  He  finally  began  to 
adopt  the  latter  belief,  as  he  himself,  sometimes  on 
meeting  Barney,  thought  that  he  walked  as  erect  as 
he  ever  had. 

Thomas  Payne  stayed  several  weeks  in  Pembroke, 
and  he  did  not  go  to  see  Charlotte.  Once  he  met 
her  in  the  street,  and  stopped  and  shook  hands  with 
gay  heartiness. 


301 


"  He's  got  over  caring  about  me,"  Charlotte  thought 
to  herself  with  a  strange  pang,  which  shocked  and 
shamed  her.  "  Most  likely  he's  got  somebody  out 
West,  where  he  is,"  she  said  to  herself  firmly ;  that 
she  ought  to  be  glad  if  he  had,  and  that  she  was ; 
and  yet  she  was  not,  although  she  never  owned  it  to 
herself,  and  was  stanchly  loyal  to  her  old  love. 

Charlotte  herself  often  fancied  uneasily  that  Bar 
ney's  back  was  growing  like  Royal  Bennet's.  She 
watched  him  furtively  when  she  could.  Then  she 
would  say  to  herself,  another  time,  that  she  must 
have  imagined  it. 

Thomas  Payne  went  away  the  first  of  May.  That 
evening  Charlotte  sat  on  the  door-step  in  the  soft 
spring  twilight.  Her  mother  had  just  come  home 
from  her  sister  Hannah  Berry's.  "Thomas  Payne 
went  this  afternoon,"  her  mother  said,  standing  be 
fore  her. 

"Did  he?"  said  Charlotte. 

"You  might  have  had  him  if  you  hadn't  stuck  to 
a  poor  stick  that  ain't  fit  to  tie  your  shoes  up  !"  Sarah 
cried  out,  with  sudden  bitterness.  Her  voice  sounded 
like  Hannah  Berry's.  Charlotte  knew  that  was  just 
what  her  aunt  Hannah  had  said  about  it. 

"  I  don't  ask  him  to  tie  my  shoes  up,"  returned 
Charlotte. 

"  You  can  stan'  up  for  him  all  you  want  to,"  said 
her  mother.  "  You  know  he's  a  poor  tool,  an'  he's 
treatin'  you  mean.  You  know  he  can't  begin  to 
come  up  to  a  young  man  like  Thomas  Payne." 


302 


"Thomas  Payne  don't  want  me,  and  I  don't  want 
him  ;  don't  talk  any  more  about  it,  mother." 

"  I  think  somebody  ought  to  talk  about  it,"  said 
her  mother,  and  she  pushed  roughly  past  Charlotte 
into  the  house. 

Charlotte  sat  on  the  door-step  a  long  while.  "  If 
Thomas  Payne  has  got  anybody  out  West,  I  guess 
she'll  be  glad  to  see  him,"  she  thought.  The  fancy 
pained  her,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  see  Thomas  Payne 
and  Barney  side  by  side,  the  one  like  a  young  prince 
— handsome  and  stately,  full  of  generous  bravery — 
the  other  vaguely  crouching  beneath  some  awful  de 
formity,  pitiful  yet  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
and  her  whole  soul  cleaved  to  her  old  lover.  "  What 
we've  got  is  ours,"  she  said  to  herself. 

As  she  sat  there  a  band  of  children  went  past, 
with  a  shrill,  sweet  clamor  of  voices.  They  were 
out  hanging  May-baskets  and  bunches  of  anemones. 
That  was  the  favorite  sport  of  the  village  children 
during  the  month  of  May.  The  woods  were  full  of 
soft,  innocent,  seeking  faces,  bending  over  the  deli 
cate  bells  nodding  in  the  midst  of  whorls  of  dark 
leaves.  Every  evening,  after  sundown,  there  were 
mysterious  bursts  of  laughter  and  tiny  scamperings 
around  doors,  and  great  balls  of  bloom  swinging 
from  the  latchets  when  they  were  opened ;  but  no 
person  in  sight,  only  soft  gurgles  of  mirth  and  de 
light  sounded  around  a  corner  of  darkness. 

After  Charlotte  went  to  bed  that  night  she  thought 
she  heard  somebody  at  the  south  door.  "  It  is  the 


803 


children  with  some  may-flowers,"  she  thought.  But 
presently  she  reflected  that  it  was  very  late  for  the 
children  to  be  out. 

After  a  little  while  she  got  up,  and  stole  down 
stairs  to  the  door,  feeling  her  way  through  the  dark 
house. 

She  opened  the  south  door  cautiously,  and  put  her 
hand  out.  There  were  no  flowers  swinging  from  the 
latch  as  she  half  expected.  Her  bare  feet  touched 
something  on  the  door-step  ;  she  stooped,  and  there 
was  a  great  package. 

Charlotte  took  it  up,  and  went  noiselessly  back  to 
her  room  with  it.  She  lighted  a  candle,  and  unfas 
tened  the  paper  wrappings.  She  gave  a  little  cry. 
There  were  yards  of  beautiful  silk  shimmering  with 
lilac  and  silver  and  rose-color,  and  there  was  also  a 
fine  lace  mantle. 

Charlotte  looked  at  them ;  she  was  quite  pale  and 
trembling.  She  folded  the  silk  and  lace  again  care 
fully,  and  put  them  in  a  chest  out  of  sight.  Then 
she  went  back  to  bed,  and  lay  there  crying  wildly. 

"  Poor  Barney !  poor  Barney  !"  she  sobbed  to  her 
self. 

The  next  evening,  after  Cephas  and  Sarah  had 
gone  to  bed,  Charlotte  crept  out  of  the  house  with 
the  package  under  her  shawl.  It  was  still  early.  She 
ran  nearly  all  the  way  to  Barney  Thayer's  house ; 
she  was  afraid  of  meeting  somebody,  but  she  did  not. 

She  knocked  softly  on  Barney's  door,  and  heard 
him  coming  to  open  it  at  once.  When  he  saw  her 


304 


standing  there  he  gave  a  great  start,  and  did  not 
say  anything.  Charlotte  thought  he  did  not  recog 
nize  her  in  the  dusk. 

"  It's  me,  Barney,"  she  said. 

"I  know  you,"  said  Barney.  She  held  out  the 
package  to  him.  "  I've  brought  this  back,"  said  she. 

Barney  made  no  motion  to  take  it  from  her. 

"  I  can't  take  it,"  she  said,  firmly. 

Suddenly  Barney  threw  up  his  hands  over  his  face. 
"  Can't  you  take  just  that  much  from  me,  Charlotte  ? 
Can't  you  let  me  do  as  much  as  that  for  you  ?"  he 
groaned  out. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Charlotte.  "You  must  take 
it  back,  Barney." 

"  Ohj  Charlotte,  can't  you — take  that  much  from 
me  ?" 

"I  can  take  nothing  from  you  as  things  are," 
Charlotte  replied. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  have  a  dress.  I  saw  you  had 
given  the  other  away.  I  didn't  think  —  there  was 
any  harm  in  buying  it  for  you,  Charlotte." 

"  It  isn't  your  place  to  buy  dresses  for  me  as  things 
are,"  said  Charlotte.  She  extended  the  package,  and 
he  took  it,  as  if  by  force.  She  heard  him  sob. 

"  You  must  never  try  to  do  anything  like  this 
again,"  she  said.  "  I  want  you  to  understand  it, 
Barney." 

Then  she  went  away,  and  left  him  standing  there 
holding  his  discarded  gift. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AFTER  a  while  the  village  people  ceased  to  have 
the  affairs  of  Barney  Thayer  and  Charlotte  Barnard 
particularly  upon  their  minds.  As  time  went  on,  and 
nothing  new  developed  in  the  case,  they  no  longer 
dwelt  upon  it.  Circumstances,  like  people,  soon  show 
familiar  faces,  and  are  no  longer  stared  after  and  re 
marked.  The  people  all  became  accustomed  to  Bar 
ney  living  alone  in  his  half-furnished  house  season 
after  season,  and  to  Charlotte  walking  her  solitary 
maiden  path.  They  seldom  spoke  of  it  among  them 
selves;  sometimes,  when  a  stranger  came  to  town, 
they  pointed  out  Barney  and  Charlotte  as  they  would 
have  any  point  of  local  interest. 

"  Do  you  see  that  house  ?"  a  woman  bent  on  hos 
pitable  entertainment  said  as  she  drove  a  matronly 
cousin  from  another  village  down  the  street;  "the 
one  with  the  front  windows  boarded  up,  without 
any  step  to  the  front  door?  Well,  Barney  Thayer 
lives  there  all  alone.  He's  old  Caleb  Thayer's  son, 
all  the  son  that's  left ;  the  other  one  died.  There  was 
some  talk  of  his  mother's  whippin'  him  to  death. 
She  died  right  after,  but  they  said  afterwards  that  she 
didn't,  that  he  run  away  one  night,  an'  went  slidin' 
downhill,  an'  that  was  what  killed  him ;  he'd  always  had 
20 


306 


heart  trouble.  I  dunno  ;  I  always  thought  Deborah 
Thayer  was  a  pretty  good  woman,  but  she  was  pretty 
set.  I  guess  Barney  takes  after  her.  He  was  goin' 
with  Charlotte  Barnard  years  ago — I  guess  'twas  as 
much  as  nine  or  ten  years  ago,  now  —  an'  they  were 
goin'  to  be  married.  She  was  all  ready — weddin'-dress 
an'  bonnet  an'  everything — an'  this  house  was  'most 
done  an'  ready  for  them  to  move  into ;  but  one 
Sunday  night  Barney  he  went  up  to  see  Charlotte, 
an'  he  got  into  a  dispute  with  her  father  about  the 
'lection,  an'  the  old  man  he  ordered  Barney  out  of 
the  house,  an'  Barney  he  went  out,  an'  he  never 
went  in  again  —  couldn't  nobody  make  him.  His 
mother  she  talked ;  it  'most  killed  her ;  an'  I  guess 
Charlotte  said  all  she  could,  but  he  wouldn't  stir 
a  peg. 

"  He  went  right  to  livin'  in  his  new  house,  an'  he 
lives  there  now  ;  he  ain't  married,  an'  Charlotte  ain't. 
She's  had  chances,  too.  Squire  Payne's  son,  he 
wanted  her  bad." 

The  visiting  cousin's  mild,  interrogative  face  peered 
out  around  the  black  panel  of  the  covered  wagon  at 
Barney's  poor  house ;  her  spectacles  glittered  at  it 
in  the  sun.  "  I  want  to  know  !"  said  she,  with  the 
expression  of  strained,  entertained  amiability  which 
she  wore  through  her  visit. 

When  they  passed  the  Barnard  house  the  Pem 
broke  woman  partly  drew  rein  again ;  the  old  horse 
meandered  in  a  zigzag  curve,  with  his  head  lopping. 
"That's  where  Charlotte  Barnard  lives,"  she  said. 


307 


Suddenly   she   lowered   her  voice.     "  There  she  is 
now,  out  in  the  yard,"  she  whispered. 

Again  the  visiting  cousin  peered  out.  "  She's  good- 
lookin',  ain't  she  ?"  she  remarked,  cautiously  viewing 
Charlotte's  straight  figure  and  fair  face  as  she  came 
towards  them  out  of  the  yard. 

"She  ain't  so  good-lookin'  as  she  used  to  be,"  re 
joined  the  other  woman.  "  I  guess  she's  goin'  down 
to  her  aunt  Sylvy's — Sylvy  Crane  as  was.  She  mar 
ried  Richard  Alger  a  while  ago,  after  she'd  been  goin' 
with  him  over  twenty  year.  He's  fixed  up  the  old 
Crane  place.  It  got  dreadful  run  down,  an'  Sylvy 
she  actually  set  out  for  the  poor-house,  an'  Richard 
he  stopped  Jonathan  Leavitt,  he  was  carryin'  of  her 
over  there,  an'  he  brought  her  home,  an'  married  her 
right  off.  That  brought  him  to  the  point.  Sylvy 
lives  on  the  old  road ;  we  can  drive  round  that  way 
when  we  go  home,  an'  I'll  show  you  the  place." 

When  they  presently  drove  down  the  green  length 
of  the  old  road,  the  visiting  cousin  spied  interestedly 
at  Sylvia's  house  and  Sylvia's  own  delicate  profile 
frilled  about  with  lace,  drooping  like  the  raceme  of 
some  white  flower  in  one  of  the  windows. 

"That's  her  at  the  window,"  whispered  the  Pem 
broke  woman,  "  an'  there's  Richard  out  there  in  the 
bean-poles."  Just  then  Richard  peered  out  at  them 
from  the  green  ranks  of  the  beans  at  the  sound  of 
their  wheels,  and  the  Pembroke  woman  nodded,  with 
a  cough. 

They  drove  slowly  out  of  the  old  road  into  the 


308 


main -travelled  one,  and  presently  passed  the  old 
Thayer  house.  A  woman's  figure  fled  hurriedly  up 
the  yard  into  the  house  as  they  approached.  There 
was  a  curious  shrinking  look  about  her  as  she  fled, 
her  very  clothes,  her  muslin  skirts,  her  light  barege 
shawl,  her  green  bonnet,  seemed  to  slant  away  before 
the  eyes  of  the  two  women  who  were  watching  her. 

The  Pembroke  woman  leaned  close  to  her  cousin's 
ear,  and  whispered  with  a  sharp  hiss  of  breath.  The 
cousin  started  and  colored  red  all  over  her  matronly 
face  and  neck.  She  stared  with  a  furtive  shamed 
air  at  poor  Rebecca  hastening  into  her  house.  The 
door  closed  after  her  with  a  quick  slam. 

It  was  always  to  Rebecca,  years  beyond  her  trans 
gression,  admitted  ostensibly  to  her  old  standing  in 
the  village,  as  if  an  odor  of  disgrace  and  isolation  still 
clung  to  her,  shaken  out  from  her  every  motion  from 
the  very  folds  of  her  garments.  It  came  in  her  own 
nostrils  wherever  she  went,  like  a  miserable  emana 
tion  of  her  own  personality.  She  always  shrank  back 
lest  others  noticed  it,  and  she  always  would.  She  par 
ticularly  shunned  strangers.  The  sight  of  a  strange 
woman  clothed  about  with  utter  respectability  and 
strictest  virtue  intimidated  her  beyond  her  power  of 
self-control,  for  she  always  wondered  if  she  had  been 
told  about  her,  and  realized  that,  if  she  had,  her  old 
disgrace  had  assumed  in  this  new  mind  a  hideous 
freshness. 

After  the  door  had  slammed  behind  Rebecca  the 
two  women  drove  home,  and  the  guest  was  presently 


309 


feasted  on  company-fare  for  supper,  and  all  these 
strange  tragedies  and  histories  to  which  she  had  lis 
tened  had  less  of  a  savor  in  her  memory,  than  the  fine 
green  tea  and  the  sweet  cake  on  her  tongue.  The 
hostess,  too,  did  not  have  them  in  mind  any  longer; 
she  pressed  the  plum-cake  and  hot  biscuits  and  honey 
on  her  cousin,  in  lieu  of  gossip,  for  entertainment. 
The  stories  were  old  to  her,  except  as  she  found  a 
new  listener  to  them,  and  they  had  never  had  any 
vital  interest  for  her.  They  had  simply  made  her 
imagination  twang  pleasantly,  and  now  they  could 
hardly  stir  the  old  vibrations. 

It  seemed  sometimes  as  if  their  hard  story  must 
finally  grow  old,  and  lose  its  bitter  savor  to  Char 
lotte  and  Barney  themselves.  Sometimes  Charlotte's 
mother  looked  at  her  inquiringly  and  said  to  herself, 
"  I  don't  believe  she  ever  thinks  about  it  now."  She 
told  Cephas  so,  and  the  old  man  nodded.  "  She's  a 
fool  if  she  does,"  he  returned,  gruffly. 

Cephas  had  never  told  anybody  how  he  had  gone 
once  to  Barney  Thayer's  door,  and  there  stood  long 
and  delivered  himself  of  a  strange  harangue,  wherein 
the  penitence  and  desire  for  peace  had  been  thinly 
veiled  by  a  half-wild  and  eccentric  philosophy;  but 
the  gist  of  which  had  been  the  humble  craving  for 
pardon  of  an  old  man,  and  his  beseeching  that  his 
daughter's  lover,  separated  from  her  by  his  own  fault, 
should  forget  it  and  come  back  to  her. 

"  I  haven't  got  anything  to  say  about  it,"  Barney 
had  replied,  and  the  old  man  had  seemed  to  experi- 


310 


ence  a  sudden  shock  and  rebound,  as  from  the  unex 
pected  face  of  a  rock  in  bis  path. 

However,  he  still  hoped  that  Barney  \vould  relent 
and  come.  The  next  Sunday  evening  he  had  him 
self  laid  the  parlor  fire  all  ready  for  lighting,  and  hint 
ed  that  Charlotte  should  change  her  dress.  When 
nobody  came  he  looked  more  crestfallen  than  his 
daughter ;  she  suspected,  although  he  never  knew  it. 

Charlotte  had  never  learned  any  trade,  but  she  had 
a  reputation  for  great  natural  skill  with  her  needle. 
Gradually,  as  she  grew  older,  she  settled  into  the 
patient  single-woman  position  as  assister  at  feasts, 
instead  of  participator.  When  a  village  girl  of  a 
younger  generation  than  herself  was  to  be  married, 
she  was  in  great  demand  for  the  preparation  of  the 
bridal  outfit  and  the  finest  needle-work.  She  would 
go  day  after  day  to  the  house  of  the  bride-elect,  and 
sew  from  early  morning  until  late  night  upon  the 
elaborate  quilts,  the  dainty  linen,  and  the  fine  new 
wedding-gowns. 

She  bore  herself  always  with  a  steady  cheerfulness  ; 
nobody  dreamed  that  this  preparing  others  for  the 
happiness  which  she  herself  had  lost  was  any  trial 
to  her.  Nobody  dreamed  that  every  stitch  which  she 
set  in  wedding-garments  took  painfully  in  a  piece  of 
her  own  heart,  and  that  not  from  envy.  Her  faith 
ful  needle,  as  she  sewed,  seemed  to  keep  her  old 
wounds  open  like  a  harrow,  but  she  never  shrank. 
She  saw  the  sweet,  foolish  smiles  and  blushes  of 
happy  girls  whose  very  wits  were  half  astray  under 


1311 


the  dazzle  of  love ;  she  felt  them  half  tremble  under 
her  hands  as  she  fitted  the  bridal -gowns  to  their 
white  shoulders,  as  if  under  the  touch  of  their 
lovers. 

They  walked  before  her  and  met  her  like  doppel- 
gangers,  wearing  the  self-same  old  joy  of  her  own 
face,  but  she  looked  at  them  unswervingly.  It  is 
harder  to  look  at  the  likeness  of  one's  joy  than  at 
one's  old  sorrow,  for  the  one  was  dearer.  If  Char 
lotte's  task  whereby  she  earned  her  few  shillings  had 
been  the  consoling  and  strengthening  of  poor  for 
saken,  jilted  girls,  instead  of  the  arraying  of  brides, 
it  would  have  been  a  happier  and  an  easier  one. 

But  she  sat  sewing  fine,  even  stitches  by  the  light 
of  the  evening  candle,  hearing  the  soft  murmur  of 
voices  from  the  best  rooms,  where  the  fond  couples 
sat,  smiling  like  a  soldier  over  her  work.  She  pinned 
on  bridal  veils  and  flowers,  and  nobody  knew  that 
her  own  face  instead  of  the  bride's  seemed  to  smile 
mockingly  at  her  through  the  veil. 

She  was  much  happier,  although  she  would  have 
sternly  denied  it  to  herself,  when  she  was  watching 
with  the  sick  and  putting  her  wonderful  needle-work 
into  shrouds,  for  it  was  in  request  for  that  also. 

Except  for  an  increase  in  staidness  and  dignity, 
and  a  certain  decorous  change  in  her  garments,  Char 
lotte  Barnard  did  not  seem  to  grow  old  at  all.  Her 
girlish  bloom  never  faded  under  her  sober. bonnet, 
although  ten  years  had  gone  by  since  her  own  mar 
riage  had  been  broken  off. 


312 


Barney  used  to  watch  furtively  Charlotte  going 
past.  He  knew  quite  well  when  she  was  helping 
such  and  such  a  girl  get  ready  to  be  married.  He 
saw  her  going  home,  a  swift  shadowy  figure,  after 
dark,  with  her  few  poor  shillings  in  her  pocket. 
That  she  should  go  out  to  work  filled  him  with  a 
fierce  resentment.  With  a  childish  and  masculine 
disregard  for  all  except  bare  actualities,  he  could  not 
see  why  she  need  to,  why  she  could  not  let  him  help 
her.  He  knew  that  Cephas  Barnard's  income  was 
very  meagre,  that'  Charlotte  needed  her  little  earn 
ings  for  the  barest  necessaries ;  but  why  could  she 
not  let  him  give  them  to  her  ? 

Barney  was  laying  up  money.  lie  had  made  his 
will,  whereby  he  left  everything  to  Charlotte,  and  to 
her  children  after  her  if  she  married.  He  worked 
very  hard.  In  summer  he  tilled  his  great  farm,  in 
winter  he  cut  wood. 

The  winter  of  the  tenth  year  after  his  quarrel  with 
Charlotte  was  a  very  severe  one  —  full  of  snow 
storms  and  fierce  winds,  and  bitterly  cold.  All  win 
ter  long  the  swamps  were  frozen  up,  and  men  could 
get  into  them  to  cut  wood.  Barney  went  day  after 
day  and  cut  the  wood  in  a  great  swamp  a  mile  be 
hind  his  house.  He  stood  from  morning  until  night 
hewing  do*wn  the  trees,  which  had  gotten  their  lusty 
growth  from  the  graves  of  their  own  kind.  Their 
roots  were  sunken  deep  among  and  twined  about  the 
very  bones  of  their  fathers  which  helped  make  up 
the  rich  frozen  soil  of  the  great  swamp.  The  crusty 


313 


snow  was  three  feet  deep ;  the  tall  hlackberry  vines 
were  hooped  with  snow,  set  fast  at  either  end  like 
snares :  it  was  hard  work  making  one's  way  through 
them.  The  snow  was  over  the  heads  of  those  dried 
weeds  which  did  not  blow  away  in  the  autumn,  but 
stayed  on  their  stalks  with  that  persistency  of  life 
that  outlives  death  ;  but  all  the  sturdy  bushes,  which 
were  almost  trees,  the  swamp -pinks  and  the  wild- 
roses,  waxed  gigantic,  lost  their  own  outlines,  and 
stretched  out  farther  under  their  loads  of  snow, 

Barney  hewed  wood  in  the  midst  of  this  white 
tangle  of  trees  and  bushes  and  vines,  which  were  like 
a  wild,  dumb  multitude  of  death-things  pressing  ever 
against  him,  trying  to  crowd  him  away.  When  he 
hit  them  as  he  passed,  they  swung  back  in  his  face 
with  a  semblance  of  life.  If  a  squirrel  chattered  and 
leaped  between  some  white  boughs,  he  started  as 
if  some  dead  thing  had  come  to  life,  for  it  seemed 
like  the  voice  and  motion  of  death  rather  than  of 
life. 

Half  a  mile  away  at  the  right  other  wood-cutters 
were  at  work.  When  the  wind  was  the  right  way 
he  could  now  and  then  hear  the  strokes  of  their 
axes  and  a  shout.  Often  as  he  worked  alone,  swing 
ing  his  axe  steadily  with  his  breath  in  a  white  cloud 
before  his  face,  he  amused  himself  miserably — as 
one  might  with  a  bitter  sweetmeat  —  with  his  old 
dreams. 

He  had  no  dreams  in  the  present ;  they  all  be 
longed  to  the  past,  and  he  dreamed  them  over  as 


314 


one  sing's  over  old  songs.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
quite  possible  that  they  still  belonged  to  his  life, 
and  might  still  come  true. 

Then  he  would  hear  a  hoarse  shout  through  the 
still  air  from  the  other  side  of  the  swamp,  and  he 
would  know  suddenly  that  Charlotte  would  never 
wait  in  his  home  yonder,  while  he  worked,  and  wel 
come  him  home  at  night. 

The  other  wood-cutters  had  families.  They  had 
to  pass  his  lot  on  their  way  out  to  the  open  road. 
Barney  would  either  retreat  farther  among  the  snowy 
thickets,  or  else  work  with  such  fury  that  he  could 
seem  not  to  see  them  as  they  filed  past. 

Often  he  did  not  go  home  at  noon,  and  ate  noth 
ing  from  morn  until  night.  He  cut  wood  many  days 
that  winter  when  the  other  men  thought  the  weather 
too  severe  and  sat  huddled  over  their  fires  in  their 
homes,  shoving  their  chairs  this  and  that  way  at 
their  wives'  commands,  or  else  formed  chewing  and 
gossiping  rings  within  the  glowing  radius  of  the  red- 
hot  store  stove. 

"  See  Barney  Thayer  goin'  cross  lots  with  his  axe 
as  I  come  by,"  one  said  to  another,  rolling  the  tobacco 
well  back  into  his  grizzled  cheek. 

"  Works  as  if  he  was  possessed,"  was  the  reply,  in 
a  half-inarticulate,  gruff  murmur. 

"Well,  he  can  if  he  wants  to,"  said  still  another. 
"  I  ain't  goin'  to  work  out-doors  in  any  such  weather 
as  this  for  nobody,  not  if  I  know  it,  an'  I've  got  a 
wife  an'  eight  children,  an'  he  ain't  got  nobody." 


315 


And  the  man  cast  defiant  eyes  at  the  great  store- 
windows,  dim  with  thick  blue  sheaves  of  frost. 

On  a  day  like  that  Barney  seemed  to  be  hewing 
asunder  not  only  the  sturdy  fibres  of  oak  and  hem 
lock,  but  the  terrible  sinews  of  frost  and  winter,  and 
many  a  tree  seemed  to  rear  itself  over  him  threaten 
ing  stiffly  like  an  old  man  of  death.  Only  by  fierce 
contest,  as  it  were,  could  he  keep  himself  alive,  but 
he  had  a  certain  delight  in  working  in  the  swamp 
during  those  awful  arctic  days.  The  sense  that  he 
could  still  fight  and  conquer  something,  were  it  only 
the  simple  destructive  force  of  nature,  aroused  in 
him  new  self-respect. 

Through  snow-storms  Barney  plunged  forth  to  the 
swamp,  and  worked  all  day  in  the  thick  white  slant 
of  the  storm,  with  the  snow  heaping  itself  upon  his 
bowed  shoulders. 

People  prophesied  that  he  would  kill  himself ;  but 
he  kept  on  day  after  day,  and  had  not  even  a  cold 
until  February.  Then  there  came  a  south  rain  and 
a  thaw,  and  Barney  went  to  the  swamp  and  worked 
two  days  knee-deep  in  melting  snow.  Then  there 
was  a  morning  when  he  awoke  as  if  on  a  bed  of 
sharp  knives,  and  lay  alone  all  day  and  all  that  night, 
and  all  the  next  day  and  that  night,  not  being  able 
to  stir  without  making  the  knives  cut  into  his 
vitals. 

Barney  lay  there  all  that  time,  and  his  soul  be 
came  fairly  bound  into  passiveness  with  awful  fetters 
of  fiery  bone  and  muscle  ;  sometimes  he  groaned,  but 


810 


nobody  heard  him.  The  last  night  he  felt  as  if  his 
whole  physical  nature  was  knitting  about  him  arid 
stifling  him  with  awful  coils  of  pain.  The  tears 
rolled  over  his  cheeks.  He  prayed  with  hoarse 
gasps,  and  he  could  not  tell  if  anybody  heard  him. 
A  dim  light  from  a  window  in  the  Barnard  house  on 
the  hill  lay  into  the  kitchen  opposite  his  bedroom 
door.  He  thought  of  Charlotte,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
child  and  she  his  mother.  The  maternal  and  pro 
tecting  element  in  her  love  was  all  that  appealed  to 
him  then,  and  all  that  he  missed  or  wanted.  "  Char 
lotte,  Charlotte,"  he  mumbled  to  himself  with  his 
parched,  quivering  lips. 

At  noon  the  next  day  Cephas  Barnard  came  home 
from  the  store  ;  he  had  been  down  to  buy  some 
molasses.  When  he  entered  his  kitchen  he  set  the 
jug  down  on  the  table  with  a  hard  clap,  then  stood 
still  in  his  wet  boots. 

Sarah  and  Charlotte  were  getting  dinner,  both 
standing  over  the  stove.  Sarah  glanced  at  Cephas 
furtively,  then  at  Charlotte  ;  Cephas  never  stirred. 
A  pool  of  water  collected  around  his  boots,  his 
brows  bent  moodily  under  his  cap. 

"Why  don't  you  set  down,  Cephas,  an'  take  off 
your  boots  ?"  Sarah  ventured  at  length,  timidly. 

"  Folks  are  fools,"  grunted  Cephas. 

"  I  dunno  what  you  mean,  Cephas." 

Cephas  got  the  boot-jack  out  of  the  corner,  sat 
down,  and  began  jerking  off  the  wet  boots  with 
sympathetic  screws  of  his  face. 


31' 


Sarah  stood  with  a  wooden  spoon  uplifted,  eying 
him  anxiously.  Charlotte  went  into  the  pantry. 

"  There  'ain't  anythin'  happened,  has  there,  Ce 
phas  ?"  said  Sarah,  presently. 

Cephas  pulled  off  the  second  boot,  and  sat  hold 
ing  his  blue  yarn  stocking-feet  well  up  from  the  wet 
floor.  "  There  ain't  no  need  of  bavin'  the  rheumatiz, 
accordin'  to  my  way  of  thinkin',"  said  he. 

"  Who's  got  the  rheumatiz,  Cephas?" 

"  If  folks  lived  right  they  wouldn't  have  it." 

"  You  'ain't  got  it,  have  you,  Cephas  ?" 

"  I  'ain't  never  had  a  tech  of  it  in  my  life  except 
once,  an'  then  'twas  due  to  my  not  drinkin'  enough." 

"  Not  drinkin'  enough  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  didn't  drink  enough  water.  Folks  with 
rheumatiz  had  ought  to  drink  all  the  water  they  can 
swaller.  They  had  ought  to  drink  more'n  they  eat." 

"  I  dunno  what  you  mean,  Cephas." 

"  It  stands  to  reason.  I've  worked  it  all  out  in 
my  mind.  Rheumatiz  comes  on  in  wet  weather,  be 
cause  there's  too  much  water  an'  damp  'round.  Now, 
if  there's  too  much  water  outside,  you  can  kind  of 
even  it  up  by  takin'  more  water  inside.  The  reason 
for  any  sickness  is — the  balance  ain't  right.  The 
weight  gets  shifted,  an'  folks  begin  to  topple,  then 
they're  sick.  If  it  goes  clean  over,  they  die.  The 
balance  has  got  to  be  kept  even  if  you  want  to  be 
well.  When  the  swamps  are  fillin'  up  with  water, 
an'  there's  too  much  moisture  in  the  outside  air,  an' 
too  much  pressure  of  it  on  your  bones  an'  joints,  if 


318 


you  swallow  enough  water  inside  it  keeps  things 
even.  If  Barney  Thayer  had  drunk  a  gallon  of 
water  a  day,  he  might  have  worked  in  the  wet 
swamp  till  doomsday  an'  he  wouldn't  have  got  the 
rheumatiz." 

"  Has  Barney  Thayer  got  the  rheumatiz,  Cephas  ?" 

Charlotte's  pale  face  appeared  in  the  pantry  door. 

"  Yes,  he  has  got  it  bad.  'Ain't  stirred  out  of  hjs 
bed  since  night  before  last;  been  all  alone;  nobody 
knew  it  till  William  Berry  went  in  this  forenoon. 
Guess  he'd  died  there  if  he'd  been  left  much  longer." 

"  Who's  with  him  now  ?"  asked  Charlotte,  in  a 
quick,  strained  voice. 

"  The  Ray  boy  is  sittin'  with  him,  whilst  William 
is  gone  to  the  North  Village  to  see  if  he  can  get 
somebody  to  come.  There's  a  widow  woman  over 
there  that  goes  out  nussin',  Silas  said,  an'  they  hope 
they  can  get  her.  The  doctor  says  he's  got  to  have 
somebody." 

"  Rebecca  can't  do  anything,  of  course,"  said  Sarah, 
meditatively  ;  "  he  'ain't  got  any  of  his  own  folks  to 
come,  poor  feller." 

Charlotte  crossed  the  kitchen  floor  with  a  resolute 
air. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do,  Charlotte?"  her  mother 
asked  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Charlotte  turned  around  and  faced  her  father  and 
mother.  "  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  ask  me,"  said  she. 

"You  ain't  —  goin'  —  over  —  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am  going  over  there.     Do  you  sup- 


319 


pose  I  am  going  to  let  him  lie  there  and  suffer  all 
alone,  with  nobody  to  take  care  of  him  ?" 

"  There's  —  the  woman  —  comin'." 

"  She  can't  come.  I  know  who  the  woman  is. 
They  tried  to  get  her  when  Squire  Payne's  sister 
died  last  week.  Aunt  Sylvy  told  me  about  it.  She 
was  engaged  'way  ahead." 

"  Oh,  Charlotte !  I'm  afraid  you  hadn't  ought  to 
go,"  her  mother  said,  half  crying. 

"  I've  got  to  go,  mother,"  Charlotte  said,  quietly. 
She  opened  the  door. 

"  You  come  back  here !"  Cephas  called  after  her  in 
a  great  voice. 

Charlotte  turned  around.  "  I  am  going,  father," 
said  she. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  a  step." 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  Oh,  Charlotte  !  I'll  go  over,"  sobbed  her  mother. 

"  You  haven't  gone  a  step  out-doors  for  a  month 
with  your  own  lame  knee.  I  am  the  one  to  go,  and 
I  am  going." 

"  You  ain't  goin'  a  step." 

"Oh,  Charlotte!  I'm  afraid  you  hadn't  better," 
wailed  Sarah. 

Charlotte  stood  before  them  both.  "  Look  here, 
father  and  mother,"  said  she.  "  I've  never  gone 
against  your  wishes  in  my  life,  but  now  I'm  going  to. 
It's  my  duty  to.  I  was  going  to  marry  him  once." 

"You  didn't  marry  him,"  said  Cephas. 

"  I  was  willing  to  marry  him,  and  that  amounts  to 


320 


the  same  thing  for  any  woman,"  said  Charlotte.  "  It 
is  just  as  much  my  duty  to  go  to  him  when  he's  sick ; 
I  am  going.  There's  no  use  talking,  I  am  going." 

"  You  needn't  come  home  again,  then,"  said  her 
father. 

"  Oh,  Cephas  !"  Sarah  cried  out.  "  Charlotte,  don't 
go  against  your  father's  wishes  !  Charlotte  !" 

But  Charlotte  shut  the  door  and  hurried  up-stairs 
to  her  room.  Her  mother  followed  her,  trembling. 
Cephas  sat  still,  dangling  his  stocking-feet  clear  of 
the  floor.  He  had  an  ugly  look  on  his  face.  Pres 
ently  he  heard  the  two  women  coming  down-stairs, 
and  his  wife's  sobbing,  pleading  voice  ;  then  he  heard 
the  parlor  door  shut ;  Charlotte  had  gone  through 
the  house,  and  out  the  front  door. 

Sarah  carne  in,  sniffing  piteously.  "  Oh,  Cephas  ! 
don't  you  be  hard  on  the  poor  child;  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  got  to  go,"  she  said,  chokingly. 

Cephas  got  up,  went  padding  softly  and  cautiously 
in  his  stocking-feet  across  the  floor  to  the  sink,  and 
took  a  long  drink  with  loud  gulps  out  of  the  gourd 
in  the  water-pail. 

"  I  don't  want  to  have  no  more  talk  about  it;  I've 
said  my  say,"  said  he,  with  a  hard  breath,  wiping  his 
mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

Charlotte,  with  a  little  bundle  under  her  arm,  hast 
ened  down  the  hill.  AVlien  she  reached  Barney's 
house  she  went  around  and  knocked  at  the  side 
door.  As  she  went  into  the  yard  she  could  see  dim 
ly  a  white-capped  woman's  head  in  a  south  window 


321 


of  the  Thaycr  house  farther  down  the  road,  and  she 
knew  that  Rebecca's  nurse  was  watching  her.  Re 
becca's  second  baby  was  a  week  old,  so  she  could 
do  nothing  for  her  brother. 

Charlotte  knocked  softly  and  waited.  She  heard 
a  loud  clamping  step  across  the  floor  inside,  and  a 
whistle.  A  boy  opened  the  door  and  stood  staring 
at  her,  half  abashed,  half  impudently  important,  his 
mouth  still  puckered  with  the  whistle. 

"  Is  there  anybody  here  but  you,  Ezra  2"  asked 
Charlotte. 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  come  to  take  care  of  Mr.  Thayer  now," 
said  Charlotte. 

She  entered,  and  Ezra  Ray  stood  aside,  rolling 
his  eyes  after  her  as  she  went  through  the  kitchen. 
He  whistled  again  half  involuntarily,  a  sudden  jocu 
lar  pipe  on  the  brink  of  motion,  like  a  bird.  Char 
lotte  turned  and  shook  her  head  at  him,  and  he 
stopped  short.  He  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  the 
door,  and  dangled  his  feet  irresolutely. 

Charlotte  went  into  the  bedroom  where  Barney 
"lay,  a  rigidly  twisted,  groaning  heap  under  a  mass 
of  bed  -  clothing,  which  Ezra  Ray  had  kept  over 
him  with  energy.  She  bent  over  him.  "  I've  come 
to  take  care  of  you,  Barney,"  said  she.  His  eyes, 
half  dazed  in  his  burning  face,  looked  up  at  her  with 
scarcely  any  surprise. 

Charlotte  laid  back  some  of  the  bedclothes  whose 
weight  was  a  torture,  and  straightened  the  others. 
21 


322 


She  worked  about  the  house  noiselessly  and  swiftly. 
She  was  skilful  in  the  care  of  the  sick ;  she  had  had 
considerable  experience.  Soon  everything  was  clean 
and  in  order;  there  was  a  pleasant  smell  of  steeping 
herbs  through  the  house.  Charlotte  had  set  an  old 
remedy  of  her  mother's  steeping  over  the  fire — a 
harmless  old-wives'  decoction,  with  which  to  supple 
ment  the  doctor's  remedies,  and  give  new  courage 
to  the  patient's  mind. 

Barney  came  to  think  that  this  remedy  which 
Charlotte  prepared  was  of  more  efficacy  than  any 
which  the  doctor  mixed  in  his  gallipots.  That  is, 
when  he  could  think  at  all,  and  his  mind  and  soul 
was  able  to  reassert  itself  over  his  body.  He  had  a 
hard  illness,  and  after  he  was  out  of  bed  he  could 
only  sit  bent  miserably  over  in  a  quilt-covered  rock 
ing-chair  beside  the  fire.  He  could  not  straighten 
himself  up  without  agonizing  pain.  People  thought 
that  he  never  would,  and  he  thought  so  himself. 
His  grandfather,  his  mother's  father,  had  been  in  a 
similar  condition  for  years  before  his  death.  Peo 
ple  called  that  to  mind,  and  so  did  Barney.  "  He's 
goin'  to  be  the  way  his  grandfather  Emmons  was," 
the  men  said  in  the  store.  Barney  could  dimly  re 
member  that  old  figure  bent  over  almost  on  all-fours 
like  a  dog ;  its  wretched,  grizzled  face  turned  tow 
ards  the  earth  with  a  brooding  sternness  of  contem 
plation.  He  wondered  miserably  where  his  grand 
father's  old  cane  was,  when  he  should  be  strong 
enough  in  his  pain-locked  muscles  to  leave  his  rock- 


323 


ing-chair  and  crawl  about  in  the  spring  sunshine. 
It  used  to  be  in  the  garret  of  the  old  house.  He 
thought  that  he  would  ask  Rebecca  or  William  to 
look  for  it  some  day.  He  hesitated  to  speak  about 
it.  He  half  dreaded  to  think  that  the  time  was 
coming  when  he  would  be  strong  enough  to  move 
about,  for  then  he  was  afraid  Charlotte  would  leave 
him  and  go  home.  He  had  been  afraid  that  she 
would  when  he  left  his  bed.  He  had  a  childishly 
guilty  feeling  that  he  had  perhaps  stayed  there  a 
little  longer  than  was  necessary  on  that  account. 
One  Sunday  the  doctor  had  said  quite  decisively  to 
Charlotte,  "  It  won't  hurt  him  any  to  be  got  up  a 
little  while  to-morrow.  It  will  be  better  for  him. 
You  can  get  William  to  come  in  and  help."  Char 
lotte  had  come  back  from  the  door  and  reported  to 
Barney,  and  he  had  turned  his  face  away  with  a 
quivering  sigh. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Don't  you  want  to 
be  got  up  ?"  asked  Charlotte. 

"  Yes,"  said  Barney,  miserably. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  Charlotte  said,  bending 
over  him.  "  Don't  you  feel  well  enough  ?" 

Barney  gave  her  a  pitiful,  shamed  look  like  a 
child.  "  You'll  go,  then,"  he  half  sobbed. 

Charlotte  turned  away  quickly.  "  I  shall  not  go 
as  long  as  you  need  me,  Barney,"  she  said,  with  a 
patient  dignity. 

Barney  did  not  dream  against  what  odds  Charlotte 
had  stayed  with  him.  Her  mother  had  come  repeat- 


324 


edly,  and  expostulated  with  her  out  in  the  entry  when 
she  went  away. 

**  It  ain't  fit  for  you  to  stay  here,  as  if  you  was 
married  to  him,  when  you  ain't,  and  ain't  ever  goin' 
to  be,  as  near  as  I  can  make  out,"  she  said.  "  Will 
iam  can  get  that  woman  over  to  the  North  Village 
now,  or  I  can  come,  or  your  aunt  Hannah  would 
come  for  a  while,  till  Rebecca  gets  well  enough  to 
see  to  him  a  little.  She  was  sayin'  yesterday  that 
it  waVt  fit  for  you  to  stay  here." 

"  I'm  here,  and  I'm  going  to  stay  here  till  he's 
better  than  he  is  now,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  Folks  will  talk." 

"  I  can't  help  it  if  they  do.  I'm  doing  what  I  think 
is  right." 

"  It  ain't  fit  for  an  unmarried  woman  like  you  to 
be  takin'  care  of  him,"  said  her  mother,  and  a  sud 
den  blush  flamed  over  her  old  face. 

Charlotte  did  not  blush  at  all.  "  William  comes 
in  every  day,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  I  think  he  could  get  along  a  while  now  with 
what  William  does  an'  what  we  could  cook  an'  bring 
in,"  pleaded  her  mother.  "  I'd  come  over  every  day 
an'  set  a  while ;  I'd  jest  as  lieves  as  not.  If  you'd 
only  come  home,  Charlotte.  Your  father  didn't  mean 
anythin'  when  he  said  you  shouldn't.  He  asked  me 
jest  this  mornin'  when  you  was  comin'." 

"  I  ain't  coming  till  he's  well  enough  so  he  don't 
need  me,"  said  Charlotte.  "  There's  no  use  talking, 
mother.  I  must  go  back  now ;  he'll  wonder  what 


325 


we're  talking  about ;"  and  she  shut  the  door  gently 
upon  her  motherT  still  talking. 

Her  aunt  Hannah  came,  and  her  aunt  Sylvia, 
quaking  with  gentle  fears.  She  even  had  to  listen 
to  remonstrances  from  William  Berry,  honestly  grate 
ful  as  he  was  for  her  care  of  his  brother-in-law. 

"  I  ain't  quite  sure  that  it's  right  for  you  to  stay 
here,  Charlotte,"  he  said,  looking  away  from  her  un 
comfortably.  "  Rebecca  says — '  Hadn't  you  better 
let  me  go  for  that  woman  again  ?'  " 

"  I  think  I  had  better  stay  for  the  present,"  Char 
lotte  replied. 

"  Of  course — I  know  you  do  better  for  him — than 
anybody  else  could,  but — " 

"  How  is  Rebecca  ?"  asked  Charlotte. 

"  She  is  getting  along  pretty  well,  but  it's  slow. 
She's  kind  of  worried  about  you,  you  know.  She's 
had  considerable  herself  to  bear.  It's  hard  to  have 
folks — "  William  stopped  short,  his  face  burning. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  if  I  know  I  am  doing  what  is 
right,"  said  Charlotte.  "You  tell  Rebecca  I  am 
coming  in  to  see  her  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a  chance." 

One  contingency  had  never  occurred  to  Barney 
in  his  helpless  clinging  to  Charlotte.  He  had  never 
once  dreamed  that  people  might  talk  disparagingly 
about  her  in  consequence.  He  had,  partly  from  his 
isolated  life,  partly  from  natural  bent,  a  curious  in 
nocence  and  ignorance  in  his  conception  of  human 
estimates  of  conduct.  He  had  not  the  same  vantage- 
points  with  many  other  people,  and  indeed  in  many 


cases  seemed  to  hold  the  identical  ones  which  he 
had  chosen  when  a  child  and  first  observed  any 
thing. 

If  now  and  then  he  overheard  a  word  of  expostu 
lation,  he  never  interpreted  it  rightly.  He  thought 
that  people  considered  it  wrong  for  Charlotte  to  do 
so  much  for  him,  and  weary  herself,  when  he  had 
treated  her  so  badly.  And  he  agreed  with  them. 

He  thought  that  he  should  never  stand  upright 
again.  He  went  always  before  his  own  mental  vi 
sion  bent  over  like  his  grandfather,  his  face  inclined 
ever  downward  towards  his  miserable  future. 

Still,  as  he  sat  after  William  had  gotten  him  up  in 
the  morning,  bowed  over  pitifully  in  his  chair,  there 
was  at  times  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  watched 
Charlotte  moving  about,  which  seemed  somehow  to 
give  the  lie  to  his  bent  back.  Often  Charlotte  would 
start  as  she  met  this  look,  and  think  involuntarily 
that  he  was  quite  straight ;  then  she  would  come  to 
her  old  vision  with  a  shock,  and  see  him  sitting  there 
as  he  was. 

At  last  there  came  a  day  when  the  minister  and 
one  of  the  deacons  of  the  church  called  and  asked 
to  see  Charlotte  privately.  Barney  looked  at  them, 
startled  and  quite  white.  They  sat  with  him  quite  a 
long  while,  when,  after  many  coercive  glances  between 
the  deacon  and  the  minister,  the  latter  had  finally 
arisen  and  made  the  request,  in  a  trembling,  embar 
rassed  voice. 

Charlotte  led  them  at  once  into  the  unfinished 


327 


front  parlor,  with  its  boarded-up  windows.  Barney 
heard  her  open  the  front  door  to  give  them  light 
and  air.  He  sat  still  and  waited,  breathing  hard. 
A  terrible  dread  and  curiosity  came  over  him.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  soul  overreached  his  body  into  that 
other  room.  Without  overhearing  a  word,  suddenly 
a  knowledge  quite  foreign  to  his  own  imagination 
seemed  to  come  to  him. 

Presently  he  heard  the  front  door  shut,  then  Char 
lotte  came  in  alone.  She  was  very  pale,  but  she  had 
a  sweet,  exalted  look  as  her  eyes  met  Barney's. 

"  Have  they  gone  ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

Charlotte  nodded. 

"  What — did  they  want  ?" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  I  want  to  know." 

"  It  is  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about." 

"  I  know,"  said  Barney. 

"  You  didn't  hear  anything  ?"  Charlotte  cried  out 
in  a  startled  voice. 

"  No,  I  didn't  hear,  but  I  know.  The  church — 
don't — think  you  ought  to — stay  here.  They  are — 
going  to — take  it — up.  I  never — thought  of  that, 
Charlotte.  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Don't  you  worry  anything  about  it."  Charlotte 
had  never  touched  him,  except  to  minister  to  his  ill 
ness,  since  she  had  been  there.  Now  she  went  close, 
and  smoothed  his  hair  with  her  tender  hands.  "  Don't 
you  worry,"  she  said  again. 

Barney  looked  up  in  her  face.     "  Charlotte." 


328 


"  What  is  it  ?" 

«  I — want  you — to  go — home." 

Charlotte  started.  "  I  shall  not  go  home  as  long 
as  you  need  me,"  she  said.  "  You  need  not  think  I 
mind  what  they  say." 

"  I — want  you  to  go  home." 

"  Barney !" 

"  I  mean  what — I  say.    I — want  you  to  go — now." 

"  Not  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  now." 

Charlotte  drew  back ;  her  lips  wore  a  white  line. 
She  went  out  into  the  front  south  room,  where  she 
had  slept.  She  did  not  come  back.  Barney  listened 
until  he  heard  the  front  door  shut  after  her.  Then 
he  waited  fifteen  minutes,  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
clock.  Then  he  got  up  out  of  his  chair.  He  moved 
his  body  as  if  it  were  some  piece  of  machinery  out 
side  himself,  as  if  his  will  were  full  of  dominant 
muscles.  He  got  his  hat  off  the  peg,  where  it  had 
hung  for  weeks ;  he  went  out  of  the  house  and  out 
of  the  yard. 

His  sister  Rebecca  was  moving  feebly  up  the  road 
with  her  little  baby  in  her  arms.  She  was  taking 
her  first  walk  out  in  the  spring  sunshine.  The  nurse 
had  gone  away  the  week  before.  Her  face  was  clear 
and  pale.  All  her  sweet  color  was  gone,  but  her 
eyes  were  radiant,  and  she  held  up  her  head  in  the 
old  way.  This  new  love  was  lifting  her  above  her 
old  memories. 

She    stared   wonderingly   over    the    baby's    little 


329 


downy  head  at  her  brother.  "  It  can't  be  Barney," 
she  said  out  loud  to  herself.  She  stood  still  in  the 
road,  staring  after  him  with  parted  lips.  The  baby 
wailed  softly,  and  she  hushed  it  mechanically,  her 
great,  happy,  startled  eyes  fixed  upon  her  brother. 

Barnabas  went  on  up  the  hill  to  Charlotte  Bar 
nard's.  The  spring  was  advancing.  All  the  trees 
were  full  of  that  green  nebula  of  life  which  comes 
before  the  blossom.  Little  wings,  bearing  birds  and 
songs,  cut  the  air.  A  bluebird  shone  on  a  glisten 
ing  fence-rail,  like  a  jewel  on  a  turned  hand.  Over 
across  the  fields  red  oxen  were  moving  down  plough- 
ridges,  the  green  grass  was  springing,  the  air  was 
full  of  that  strange  fragrance  which  is  more  than 
fragrance,  since  it  strikes  the  thoughts,  which  comes 
in  the  spring  alone,  being  the  very  odor  thrown  off 
by  the  growing  motion  of  life  and  the  resurrection. 

Barney  Thayer  went  slowly  up  the  hill  with  a 
curious  gait  and  strange  gestures,  as  if  his  own  an 
gel  were  wrestling  with  himself,  casting  him  off  with 
strong  motions  as  of  wings. 

He  fought,  as  it  were,  his  way  step  by  step.  He 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  went  into  the  yard 
of  the  Barnard  house.  Sarah  Barnard  saw  him 
coining,  and  shrieked  out,  "  There's  Barney,  there's 
Barney  Thayer  comin'!  He's  walkin',  he's  walkin' 
straight  as  anybody  I" 

When  Barney  reached  the  door,  they  all  stood 
there — Cephas  and  Sarah  and  Charlotte.  Barney 
stood  before  them  all  with  that  noble  bearing  which 


330 


comes  from  humility  itself  when  it  has  fairly  tri 
umphed. 

Charlotte  came  forward,  and  he  put  his  arm  around 
her.  Then  he  looked  over  her  head  at  her  father. 
"  I've  come  back,"  said  he. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Cephas. 

And  Barney  entered  the  house  with  his  old  sweet 
heart  and  his  old  self. 


THE    END 


BY  MAKY  E.  WILKINS. 


JANE  FIELD.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     16mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  25. 

YOUNG  LUCRETIA,  and  Other  Stories.      Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

GILES  COREY,  YEOMAN.     Illustrated.      32mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  50  cents. 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.     16mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

A   HUMBLE   ROMANCE,  and  Other  Stories.     16mo, 
Cloth,  Extra,  $1  25. 

It  takes  just  such  distinguishing  literary  art  as  Mary  E. 
Wilkins  possesses  to  give  an  episode  of  New  England  its  soul, 
pathos,  and  poetry. — N.  Y.  Times. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set 
them  apart  in  a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals. 
— Literary  World,  Boston. 

The  author  has  the  unusual  gift  of  writing  a  short  story  which 
is  complete  in  itself,  having  a  real  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end.— Observer,  N.  Y. 

No  one  has  dealt  with  this  kind  of  life  better  than  Miss 
Wilkins.  Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  del 
icately  drawn,  sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures. — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  ac 
quaintance  and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet 
human  interest  she  feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in 
the  simple,  common,  homely  people  she  draws. — Springfield 
Republican. 

The  author  has  given  us  studies  from  real  life  which  must 
be  the  result  of  a  lifetime  of  patient,  sympathetic  observation. 
...  No  one  has  done  the  same  kind  of  work  so  lovingly  and  so 
well. —  Christian  Register,  Boston. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

IW  The  above  works  icill  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part 
of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  CONSTANCE   F.  WOOLSON. 


HORACE  CHASE.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
JUPITER  LIGHTS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
EAST  ANGELS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
ANNE.     Illustrated.     IGrao,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
FOR  THE  MAJOR.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
CASTLE  NOWHERE.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.     IGrao,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolsou's  writing 
which  invests  all  her  characters  with  lovahle  qualities.—  Jewish  Advo 
cate,  N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolson  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting 
magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  the  de 
lineation  of  her  heroines  no  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of 
local  life.  —Jewish  Messenger,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fen i more  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist  lau 
reate. — Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style, 
and  conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  development 
of  a  story  is  very  remarkable — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox 
novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly-loaded  vein  which,  so  far,  is  all 
her  own  ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sen 
sation,  and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant 
task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
her  in  very  pleasant  places;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the 
wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all 
she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of 
the  day— a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  time.— Whitehall 
Review,  London. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

ESP"  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  Kent  by 
the  publishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  Statet} 
Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


0009-OZZF 6  VO  'A313>1d3g 

' VINdOdllVO  dO  AllSd3AI!\in 


9QQ  'ON  WdOd 


anv 


M0139  <Hdl/\IVlS  SV  300 


6ui|iDo  Aq  peMeuaa  eq  ADLU  s^oog 
•ajop  anp  em  04  joud  sAop  v  epooi  aq  ADUU  se6jDipea  PUD  siMauay 

L  aaidv  aanvoaa  39  AVIAI  sxooa  nv 


9 

g 

17 

e 

2 

3SH  3IAIOH 

L  QOId3d  NVO1 

iN3iAiidVd3a  NOiivinoaio 


YB  74535 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


\ 


